


The Song Remains the Same

by Jackdaw816, LiberAmans214, Ravanaofnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst with a Happy Ending, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Castiel Krushnic, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Cute, Castiel is a Songwriter, Castiel is a Tease, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Communication is The New Porn, Crowley & Dean Winchester Friendship, Dean Winchester Has a Crush on Castiel, Dean is Famous, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Famous Sam Winchester, Gabriel (Supernatural) is a Little Shit, Gabriel Being Gabriel, Gabriel Has a Crush on Sam Winchester, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Kevin Tran Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Lucifer (Supernatural) Being an Asshole, M/M, Miscommunication, Model Castiel, References to Supernatural (TV), Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester is a Little Shit, Sam is Very Famous, Singer Dean, Songwriter Castiel, Songwriter Sam, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-06-12 10:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 66,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15338241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackdaw816/pseuds/Jackdaw816, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberAmans214/pseuds/LiberAmans214, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravanaofnight/pseuds/Ravanaofnight
Summary: Dean Winchester gets pulled along with Sam Winchester in the quest for free will; Sam takes to writing songs instead of soccer like John had wanted, and Dean becomes a singer, like he wanted to all along. He makes it to the top of the pecking ladder soon enough because with a voice like that, the fans can't get enough. His looks only add to the charm of the newcomer who's known for recreating Led Zeppelin and The Beatles on stage. Seven years in, they're established in the industry; hanging out with chart-toppers like 'Charlie's Choir' and 'Angels of Hell'. Enter Crowley, who moved away to Germany for unknown reasons eight years back, and he brings along a guy like Dean's never known; Castiel, with his sudden jokes, unbelievably blue eyes, and fucking laugh.Dean is all prepared for a quiet romance, engulfed in music and meaningful lyrics, with the fresh-faced foreigner, but his cliched dreams are destroyed by a new revelation. Castiel is not just the quiet, dreamy song-writer who migrated from Europe. He's a lot more too.ORThe One where Dean unknowingly fits 'Cas Novak' into his domestic fantasy, unaware that Castiel Krushnic is the most desirable man in Europe.





	1. "It's not like we can't afford confetti, you know!"

**Author's Note:**

> THESE ARE MY EDITORS:  
> [ #1. Ravanaofnight ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravanaofnight/pseuds/Ravanaofnight)
> 
>  
> 
> [ #2. Jackdaw816 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackdaw816/pseuds/Jackdaw816)
> 
>  
> 
> They're both really amazing! We're very lucky to have them!

Dean Winchester loved World Cup season.

Not because of his innate love for European football - _ "Fuck, I'm not Dad, Sammy!"  _ \- but because of the good times it brought with. That included celebratory parties thrown by Dean's friends when their respective teams won, more free time - because his manager, Bobby needed to watch every match from first whistle to last - and  _ way  _ more valid reasons to want to watch the game at midnight because though it's clear who'll win; he can't go to sleep not knowing for sure - Okay, he  _ wasn't  _ John Winchester, football legend; but he  _ was  _ his son.

And  _ also  _ because it meant watching two consecutive morning matches everyday, at his brother's place with all of their friends there. And because Dean doesn't get to see all of them together otherwise, he fucking loves World Cup season.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Sam turns his head to look at Dean, for the lazily pronounced question, and stops mid-step. But before he can retort something to match the A-grade bitchface he has on already, he's cut off.

_ "What _ , Sammich, you forgot the only rule of Dean's game night again!" Gabriel pretentiously chastised from the side; a grin of unholy glee on his face, as a result of successfully making both the brothers glare at him. He cleared his throat, next. "Thou shalt not leave here, In God's name's fear, Unless it's to fetch beer, or to clear!" He ended with a flourish, waving his hand in the air to gesture to his middle, to illustrate his bad joke.

All eyes present were experienced to Gabriel's antics though, and none batted an eye.

Except Kevin, who leant back towards Chuck who was at the end of the couch with the precious TV remote in his hand. "Does he mean peeing or masturbating?" He whispered, but it reached Dean nonetheless, and he rolled his eyes. Two years, more or less - and he  _ still _ hadn't gotten the hang of Gabe. It'd taken Dean all of two minutes in their first meeting, seven years ago.

"He's  _ Gabe _ ." Dean interjected, helpfully. "Of course, he means getting off." Kevin nodded, gratefully, and retreated to his spot.

"Gabriel, it's _ my  _ apartment, and not even close to night yet!" Sam reminded Gabriel with a roll of his eyes, and continued on his way, after replying Dean with an unturned, "To call Rowena back, jerk."

Dean shrugged dismissively, turning his eyes back to the television. The ball was back with France again. They had tremendous ball holding percentage. He would start to worry about Spain, right about  _ now. _

"Griezmann looks angry." Benny commented from the other corner of the room; the corner closest to the TV. The guy took his sports seriously. "Still upset from the yellow card."

"Pogba is who you've gotta look out for, though." Victor added, not looking away from the screen.

"He looks like the football is his dinner after three days of hunger," Garth added, almost cheerfully, from the middle of the room, where he sat on a beanbag. Good thing the guy was short; or he'd obstruct the views of the people on the couch - like Dean.

"The yellow card  _ was _ a pretty bullshit call." Dean agreed with Benny. "But then, we've already had proof that ref likes Spain better."

"The penalty call was fucking crap." Benny declared, confidently.

"So, Sam's slumming it up with the cougars?" Gabriel inputted, in flow, his eyes on the screen nonetheless when Dean turned to look at him with disgusted amuse.

"He's not you." Victor muttered quietly, not looking away from the screen. Spain had the ball now, and 29 was racing into France's defense. 

"In my  _ defense _ ," Gabriel began sagely. "I do not consider age a factor, and she looked like a  _ good _ time."

"You were a desperate dumb-ass, and she was drunk." Dean reminded Gabriel, who flipped him off promptly. France's defender kicked it right back. Jason headbutts it into the corner.

"Why is Sam calling her though?" Kevin muttered inattentively, a while later. "They don't work together anymore, do they?" Rowena had done an album with Sam in the past. It'd been a great hit, but Sam didn't collaborate much. He'd told Dean, that she made for a spontaneous stage presence but was too much for him. It was a one-time deal, but Rowena seemed eager to push it into more.

"She's trying to get him to sign contracts with her again." Dean answered.

"All the big ones got their eyes on your brother, Dean," Balthazar snickered from the corner. "I wonder what that feels like." He adds, with a not-so-subtle side-glance at Gabriel, his second cousin. Gabriel didn't even pay attention; intently watching the screen for a change, with a distracted look and a dropped jaw. Well, ignorance  _ is  _ bliss.

"Let him play with the high and mighty, Balthazar," Dean replied, airily. "I get the pretty ones."

"Like Bela Talbot." Kevin contributed, not looking away either. It was a thing, seemingly.

"We agreed not to talk about her before." Chuck bailed Dean out, as he shifted in his seat none too unnoticeably.

"Seriously, guys." Benny agreed. "We're supposed to watch  _ football _ here, not discuss the Winchester black book, like some sort of a highschool locker room."

"Hey,  _ I'll _ talk about your Andrea Kormos all you want, the moment you show me the fair lady's coveted photograph," Gabriel interrupted, rolling his eyes as if it were obvious.

Benny looked like he might have something to say to that, but then he shrugged, before returning to ignore the rest of the boneheads in the room. Dean wished he had the corner seat and luxury of doing that. But he was stuck right in the middle of the whole thing.

"So, to move on from Benny's probably-imaginary girlfriend, where were we with Samshine?" Gabriel reminded, looking at everyone. Dean groaned.

"Gabe," Balthazar looked sly. "At least  _ try  _ to hide your massive crush on Sam."

"Don't be a smartass," Gabriel smiled back, easily. "I like none of you guys. I only hangout with you because Hot Chelle Rae isn't taking any new members." Dean knew he meant none of it, but played along.

"You saying things like that makes me come close to forgetting the day you first pleaded to be a part of us." Dean replied wisely.

"I don't plead, Dean-o." Gabriel maturely stuck his tongue out, tossing his head. "I  _ lead _ ."

"Why do you think insulting you about your neediness as a person, is the same as insulting the fact that you're a needy  _ bottom _ ?" Balthazar retorted, on Dean's behalf. 

Gabriel did the 'Friends' banging-wrists thing to Balthazar, who ' _ Va Fa Napoli'd _ him back. Kevin, watching this exchange shook with laughter, and Chuck had to tell him twice to stop moving so that Chuck could watch the screen.

Dean didn't know why, but he enjoyed this.

He clearly remembered the first time they all hung out together. Gabriel and Balthazar had freshly quit 'Angels of Hell', and Dean was still skeptic about his career as a stage singer - a couple shows in, and still holding onto the railings to a fallback career. Sam had gotten into songwriting before Dean had even considered it. Those were the days when Sam was new to the spotlight, and he was only adjusting to it.

And then, Sam Winchester - maker of 'Thy Devil Within'  - had gotten a plus-one invite to the unveiling of Charlie's Choir, a new but promising band under lyricist Charles Shirley, a veteran in the business. He'd taken Dean with - it was the phase during which he'd been trying to convince Dean to do what he wanted and pursue music as a career rather than kick a ball around just because Dad told him to. And they'd gotten introduced to most of the people they were now friends with, including Victor Henriksen who performed that night.

Benny too, Dean remembered exactly how he winded up being friends with. Their circles used to be vastly different, until they worked together for 'Mis-Address', produced by MusicHuntsU. It had been Dean's first  _ famous _ original, and he'd credited Benny for the success because they'd invested a lot of themselves into it, and Dean was in awe of his work spirit. Was only weeks before he made it into Dean's core group thence -  _ Family _ , Sam had called it once.

Kevin had been an intern at MusicHuntsU when they'd met and Garth had been Charles' associate. Somehow, they'd been pulled into the group. Dean had taken his own time to get used to Garth's overoptimistic personality and Kevin's strikingly different one, but now them  _ not  _ being here would be weird. Kevin was now the Event Manager at MusicHuntsU and Garth was now at Singer Music (Funny, right?) Under Bobby and Rufus, who were Dean and Sam's respective managers.

The rest of them had also come a long way from where they were, six years back. Charlie's Choir - which for a period, had come dangerously close to breaking apart - was now as popular as Angels of Hell, if not more. Benny was not the most popular because of his attitude - somewhere between "Introvertness," Garth's words and "Emo," Gabriel's - but he regularly won Critic's Choice, and money kept coming in, for how he assisted other singers with their albums. Victor had started playback, because performing wasn't his thing.

On the other hand, Dean had taken up performing, and apart for his first few originals - most of them, courtesy of Sam - his songs were mostly singular renditions of Classic rock songs. He stayed a fan favourite for at least a month in the radius of his live performances, and on the radar annually for his work put in in the recording studios. But whatever it may be, Dean couldn't believe his own good fortune. He hadn't suspected he'd get anywhere, let alone in Chartbuster lists, and often, he internally thanked Sam for getting him out from under John Winchester's shadow, and into the 'industry', as Dean never called it aloud, but thought of, all the time.

Sam was on a different level altogether. He'd taken up songwriting primarily; not being into performing as Dean was. His lyrics were made famous by the best of singers, and the rare times he actually sung a song he himself wrote - he claimed no singer could portray the desired emotions; Dean called him a bighead - those were the times he topped the billboards.

'To Beyond' even starred on Dean's playlist, between Stairway to Heaven and Faded. No admitting it to Sam, though.

The entire room erupted in cheers as France scored a goal against Spain. With only thirteen minutes left in the game, they'd probably end up maintaining the one-zero lead.

Sam chose the exact moment to walk back into the room; ducking to dodge a fresh batch of popcorn which Gabriel threw in the air. He'd put on 'business-formal' clothes, and was buttoning his rolled up sleeves.

"Planning to leave us hanging dry, sugar?" Gabriel sang, earning himself a glare.

"I stay another thirteen minutes." Sam declared, retrieving his place next to Dean on the sofa by nudging Balthazar out of it. "Then I, unlike you lot, have somewhere to be." He added loudly, before asking Dean to relay to him what he missed.

"You'd fool someone into thinking you did  _ more _ than write songs when you felt like it, for a living." Gabriel replied sweetly, though he clearly didn't mean it. He was among the first lining up to Rufus, when Sam announced he was working on a new project, to earn his band the song rights. Sam wasn't overly partial.

"I would, wouldn't I?" Sam agreed good-naturedly, grinning broadly. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to get it to stick up in the right places, as Dean called it.

"Rowena?" Dean confirmed.

"His manager, Mr. MacLeod." Sam corrected, his smile directed at Dean.

Dean caught his eye. "You don't say -  _ Crowley _ ?"

"He's back from Germany." Sam leaned back in the sofa, satisfied with his hair. "And he's looking to get big in business here now."

"And," Dean and Sam both turned their eyes back to the television. Spain was getting desperate, and it was visible. A yellow card nearly missed. "The key to that is kissing your ass?"

Sam snorted. "He's taking me to the Plaza to discuss business. I suggested he get in touch with Rufus during hours if he wanted to talk work, but he was very into the idea of meeting me upfront."

"The bastard couldn't have changed." Dean had some memories with his strange senior at Lawrence High, his highschool, who was now turning into a big-time agent, overseas. Someone else who Dean had let into his family; but he'd moved away to Europe years ago.

"He said he'd contact you soon." Sam added, his eyes not budging from the screen. "Asked me to pass his compliments, and to remind you that he exists."

"He's the one who has me saved as 'not you', in his phone." Dean snickered. "Sorry, 'Not  _ Moose _ '."

Sam ignored the jibe. "Don't be jealous, Dean, he has a whole life to build here. He said you'd understand that he had more scope of business dealing with the songwriter rather than the solo performer."

"Pfft," Dean rolled his eyes. "I hope you told him, I am too busy to take calls from jackasses who left the country without informing."

"You sound like a jilted lover." Gabriel informed Dean seriously, followed by a yelp which was louder than necessary, when Dean's fist hit his arm.

"I wasn't talking to you." Dean shot at Gabriel his most innocent smile.

"I'm sorry for eavesdropping into a conversation which you conducted in the middle of a crowded gathering which you  _ yourself _ summoned, with absolutely no means of preventing me or anyone else from overhearing," Gabriel added, with a straight face.

"How do you have so much to say all the time?" Sam scoffed.

"A smidge of my virtues." Gabriel folded his arms, sagely.

"Fuck!" Victor yelled suddenly, and Benny stood up in surprise, and the entire room roared alive at the TV screen. The Spain's skipper had clearly purposefully tripped number 19. "That-"

"Oh, son of a bitch!" Dean resounded, leaning forward and slamming his balled up fist on the armrest. Diego Costa and Sergio Ramos, the skipper, were in France's field, passing the ball to one another and Costa had just kicked the ball into the net.

Dean remembered it being said that they didn't root for a particular team in the start of the match, but as the match neared an end, everyone wished for only one team to turn the draw into a win.

"Come on, come on, come on," Kevin chanted under his breath, loud enough for the entire room at the minute because everyone was dead silent, as their eyes followed the ball which was being passed between France's players.

An attempted shot, but defended.

"There's still injury time," Sam whispered, in the eighty seventh minute. "They can still win."

"They  _ need  _ to get the ball from Ramos!" Benny yelled, passionately, as '90' seemed to draw closer and closer.

"Maybe Spain will win after all." Chuck quietly spoke, when Spain begun to look like the stronger side, not even letting France touch the ball.

"Shut up!" Almost all of them told him, at once.

Garth joined into Kevin's chanting. 

Dean hesitantly gave in to the excited fan inside him, in injury time, when he joined too. Soon, everyone was cheering. Balthazar was biting his nails, Dean observed, his fingers strumming on the armrest. "Come on!"

One minute to go.

France had the ball.

They were rushing into Spain's field, outnumbering the defense.

Griezmann took a moment to aim, but the ball was snatched away. But instead of giving up, he raced towards it again. They were fighting tooth and nail for the ball by now. Dean had no idea what would happen.

Ball passed to Fekir - to Giroud - to Fekir again.

He aimed.

The goalkeeper leaped forward to save it.

But-

"GOAL!" Balthazar shouted, leaping up and beginning to hug everyone around him. "We fucking won!" He slapped Dean's back when Dean gleefully single-arm-hugged him, and practically jumped up to be able to hug Sam, who was second in line. As Benny and Victor begun to discuss the theoretical aspects of the win and what it'd do to France's position in the tournament, Gabriel returned to throw popcorn around.

"It's not like we can't afford confetti, you know!" Dean laughed, glancing at Sam through the corner of his eyes, only to see he was trying to get his hair back into place after Balthazar had messed it up. Freaking Rapunzel, Dean swore under his breath. He wondered how he'd ended up related to the girly giant he called a brother.

"This Sunday!" Balthazar declared, after finishing his triumphant tour of chest-bumps and hugs around the room. "We celebrate this victory!"

"Balthazar's treat!" Gabriel added, snidely.

"You high-maintenance jackasses will probably suck me dry, but  _ fine _ !" Balthazar grinned broadly, as everyone begun to settle into their places, laughing.

"Samsquatch, fetch your best champagne." Gabriel elbowed Sam. "We must celebrate the fact that we celebrate this victory on Sunday, and I need alcohol in my system.  _ Heaven _ knows Chuck has me living in Prohibition all year, so as to  _ not  _ ruin my voice. Fucking sissy." He added with feeling, sending rolls of laughter up Dean.

"You're the definition of white trash, Gabe." Sam told Gabriel.

"Fine, you can drink all you want, Gabriel," Chuck used his dad-voice on Gabriel. "I'll just find a new lead for the choir when your voice gets scratchy and you start sounding like a frog, just like that."

"You ain't getting someone like  _ me,  _ frog or no frog." Gabriel tossed his head. "And, in any case, I have a voice like whiskey dripping over gravel and-"

"Stop obsessing over fan mail, Gabe!" Dean rolled his eyes. "You have an annoying kiddish voice."

"It was a  _ love letter,  _ and  _ how dare you!? _ " Gabriel thundered.

"It  _ was _ fan mail." Benny repeated, supporting Dean. "And those words can only be used to describe a very luxuriant voice-"

"Like mine!" Gabriel curtsied.

"It's useless." Victor sighed. "The best have tried and failed, Lafitte. Gabriel is  _ never _ going to get over user GabeIsMine423."

Gabriel did a very good job of not replying to that, by instead turning to Sam with Bambi eyes. He had to tilt his head upwards to look into Sam's eyes. "Champagne for Gabe, Sammy?" He repeated.

"Are you trying to be Yoda?" Sam blinked.

"He's trying to be adorable." Balthazar helped.

"God, I didn't get that at all," Sam laughed, pushing Gabriel away, as he walked into his refrigerator to fetch the desired beverages. He came out with an opened bottle of Maker's Mark. "Make do with this; I can't entrust a corked champagne to you children." He added pointedly, extracting curses from everyone.

"I'm older, bitch," Dean protested. "You don't get to say things like that to me."

Sam ignored him merrily. "Don't screw up my place too bad, and before leaving, call Tracy to come clear up. Will you be gone by when I return?"

"Do you need us gone?" Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows. Sam quirked his head. "Or,  _ easier to answer _ , will someone be accompanying you back?"

"No, it's Crowley." Sam deadpanned. "Not a date."

"Of course not," Gabriel agreed. "You could never do that to Becky." He added mischievously, a beat later, extracting an irritated groan from Sam.

"Gabri-"

" _ I know, I know. _ " Gabriel apologised. "Sorry for referring to her. Just saying though, she's allowed to get within ten metres of you again, starting yesterday." He beamed. "Her restraining order expired. Guilty of keeping track."

"You're such a-"

"Helpful friend; I  _ know,  _ right?"

"I-I," Sam began, but gave up, because Gabriel looked like he was having a good time annoying Sam. The rest of the company had taken a back seat, to enjoy the drama. "I don't have the desire to deal with your crap, Gabriel. Bye."

"Bye, bitch!" Dean called cheerfully as he walked away, and everyone did the same, using their respective terms of endearment.

Once everyone was back to their seats again, Dean had brought glasses and was pouring the drinks out. The next match would start thirty minutes later.

"Since we have time," Chuck asked the rest of them. "Want to check out a new thing I'm working on? It's not done yet, but I would like to evaluate my little progress."

"Boo!" Gabriel replied, instantaneously, with a thumbs-down like he were at a concert. "We're having fun here, Chuck!" Chuck glared back at him.

"We promised not to be working, you know," Balthazar added, in a kinder tone.

"Yeah, because listening to a song is such a huge chore," Dean supplied sarcastically, feeling pity for Chuck. "You can sing it to us, Chuck; we'd love to hear you." Chuck looked at Dean, unsurprisedly, with a grateful smile.

Dean had a soft corner for songwriters. Ever since he'd witnessed one of Sam's _ episodes,  _ he'd been extremely sympathetic towards them. Sam had been distractedly changing channels, when suddenly he'd clutched his forehead as though he had a migraine attack, and charged to his room. When Dean followed worriedly, he saw Sam sweating profusely as he scribbled away in messed-up fonts on a sheet of paper. Sam replied with a single line, that he had an idea for a song.

Sam didn't have dinner with Dean, that night. He'd wandered out into the kitchen looking lost, late - Dean had been there, finishing dessert - and searched the fridge for food, when food was lying on the table, in front of Dean. He'd digged out a sixpack of beer which Dean always kept as a reserve - though he barely drank any, now - and picked up a heated frozen-pizza, before wordlessly returning to his room. He only came out after Lunch the next day, and after showering for a  _ long  _ time, he joined Dean in the living room, after slamming a diary in front of him.

On the bookmarked page, in a neat little handwriting which Dean thought Sam had lost graduating middle school, was 'Thy Devil Within'.

Dean had been pardonably creeped out about the whole exercise.

So, his heart went out to Chuck. "What are you waiting for?"

Chuck grinned breathily, looking like an excited teenager rather than the grumpier side of 40, and dug out his phone.

"This is against worker's rights." Gabriel whispered to Victor, in his audibility.

"You get paid more than you should for the work you do," Victor deadpanned Gabriel. "Get over yourself."

"Yeah." Balthazar snickered, nudging Gabriel with a mischievous look. "Get over yourself. You have songs written for you when you get to practise, and you have me, Alfie and Gadreel making the background for you, and all you have to do is sing."

"I work, okay?" Gabriel scowls, defensively. There's a moment when Dean doubts if Gabriel is offended, but he lets it go, when he adds, with a chuckle, "I don't  _ wake _ up this pretty."

"Trust me, he doesn't." Benny tells Victor, as if in confidence. "I stay up at nights thinking about the month we roomed together, and then when I will myself to sleep, I have nightmares about it." Victor snorted, and Dean has to stifle his laughter.

"Okay,  _ shush!"  _ Gabriel said, in a suddenly serious tone. "Chuck is trying to sing something here, guys!  _ Behave! _ "

Benny laughed one more time at this, before finally silence ensued. As if on cue, Chuck cleared his throat and begun to sing.

_ It started off just normal, _

_ Like every morning after sleepless nights, _

_ With coffee, breakfast, dim sunlight, _

_ All the same till I caught sight - _

_ Of YOU right there in front of me, _

_ Not knowing what you were doing to me, _

_ Not knowing that some part of me, _

_ Was looking at you and thinking, 'Jesus Christ!' _

_ Now, that's someone, _

_ Who I can see myself getting up next to! _

_ Now, that's someone, _

_ Who could make me halt and take a hard long look a-a-at, _

_ Now, that's someone, _

_ Who would make me wanna be a better man maybe! _

_ Now, that's someone, _

_ Who I could fall for - _

Chuck cleared his throat,  _ A SMILE FROM YOU AND THAT'D BE THAT! _

_ There's no way I could've known, _

_ Today would be the day I meet you for the fi-irst time! _

_ Until into my mess of a World, you'd flown, _

_ And I was suddenly in front of you, _

_ And the World was spinning, _

_ Round and Round, _

_ Time froze, Eyes met, _

_ I couldn't utter a Sound, _

_ And you stood there in front of me, _

_ Not knowing what you were doing to me, _

_ Not knowing that some part of me, _

_ Was looking at you and thinking, 'Jesus Christ!' _

_ Now, that's someone  _

_ Who I can see myself getting up next to! _

_ Now, that's someone, _

_ Who could make me halt and take a hard long look a-a-at, _

_ Now, that's someone, _

_ Who would make me wanna be a better man maybe! _

_ Now, that's someone, _

_ Who I could fall for - _

Everyone smiled, knowing what to expect,  _ A SMILE FROM YOU AND THAT'D BE THAT! _

The tempo slowed down after that.

_ It was as if a part of me, _

_ While most of me was certain, _

_ That you were perfect - An Angel - to look at from afar, and Admire! _

_ It was as though a part of me, _

_ Knew that this was destiny. _

_ Perhaps we were meant to be,  _

_ Perhaps this sparks off destiny, _

_ Maybe we're it? Just you and me! _

_ I know I saw you for the first time today! _

_ But it feels as though there's chemistry, _

_ Did you know what was happening to me? _

_ Did you know what was going to happen? _

_ Because, _

_ A SMILE FROM YOU AND THAT WAS THAT! _

There was absolute silence for a moment, and then the entire room applauded.

Dean smiled, as Garth piped up. "Did you meet someone special, Chuck?"

"No, but here's to hoping I do, and this song finds purpose!" Chuck laughed, raising his glass of whiskey, with a huge smile on his face. Every time his songs were met with praise, Chuck was no better than a first-timer. All bubbly and disbelieving. It was annoying, frankly - like, your songs are  _ fucking amazing,  _ why will we  _ not _ like them?

It was pretty much the same with Sam.

Dean wondered if it was a songwriter's epidemic.

"Here's to meeting someone special and giving meaning to these lyrics!" Victor resounded, gladly raising his glass.

"Hear, hear." Balthazar joined in. Kevin raised his glass too.

"Here's to  _ you _ guys," Benny feigned arrogance, and Dean felt a sudden sense of tingly happiness for his best friend; who'd already found the someone who was being discussed.

"Here's to meeting Andrea Kormos, someday!" Gabriel laughed, eyeing Benny with a wink.

Dean obediently clinked his own glass with the rest and brought it to his lips. Nobody looked weird behaving all aristocratic and old-century like this; toasts and grand gestures were common when everyone was feeling happy about life. Dean was sure feeling  _ at home.  _ Familiar faces and walls. He relaxed into the couch, as Kevin suggested that they listen to some new album, and was met with affirmation from most except Gabriel, who resumed his 'worker's rights' speech, right where it'd ended. Balthazar poured himself another glass subtly, and Benny and Victor begun debating about the popularity of The Beatles. Benny was fascinated by them; Victor thought they were overpraised. Chuck, with the help of Garth, crossed out a line in the song which had "too many feet", and begun working on a replacement. Dean watched everyone, feeling himself melt into the background, until Kevin yelled for Dean to back him up at almost the same time that Chuck enquired - sounding serious - if 'establish' was too big a word for a lyrical verse.

It had started off just normal.

***

Dean tried his best not to sound cliched as he informed Cole that they were going to go with someone else. And the guy's reaction did little to soothe him. Dean knew no one blinks that much unless they're holding back tears.

He walked back into the room on the other side of the glass, where Bobby was busy looking all technical, with headphones, furrowed eyebrows, and a hand on the computer mouse. The older man looked up when Dean walked in, taking off his headphones, and putting them in front of him. "You waved your handkerchief till he was out of sight?" He greeted Dean, kindly.

"It felt necessary to do more than just, 'Sorry, you may leave'." Dean answered, with a shrug. "The guy sounded like he put in efforts, you know. I kinda liked him."

"Then you should have taken him home, and kept him there forever," Bobby actually had a smile on, now. "But here I make the decisions, boy, and he was not the kind of person I want you working with."

"Wally Pipp and Lou Gehrig story-time?" Dean smirked, before clearing his throat and bursting into the insufferable monologue. " _ One day, Pipp didn't play, and the substitute Lou Gehrig took his place; and Gehrig was never on the bench again! Just as Pipp never started again!" _

Dean looked sufficiently proud of himself. "You done?" Bobby grunted. 

Dean nodded, with his best shit-eating grin. "For the extended version of that, I need a trucker's hat and a South Dakota accent."

Bobby merely snorted, but Dean took it in the best sense - as always. "No clue where you get that feelings crap from." He declared.

"Guess you raised me soft, Bobby." Dean laughed, earning himself a dangerous glare.

"Nah, those are the parts you picked up from your favorite chick-flicks." Bobby replied with ease, making Dean roll his eyes exaggeratedly in an attempt to disregard the loose jibe. "I'm gonna go give Rufus a call. He sounded all weird, before."

"Sam isn't the reason." Dean answered the silent question. "He hasn't been working on anything, as far as I'm aware."

Bobby nodded. "I'll be back in ten. You stay here. There's a Krushnic coming in to talk to you. And me. Producer, I suppose." He added, with almost a sympathetic look. "Try not to sign any dotted lines without me."

"Yeah, but no promises if he offers apple pie." Dean rolled his eyes back, and Bobby grinned before leaving the room. Dean looked past the thick glass, to the actual important part of the studio, taking in the mic, the comfortable looking bar-stool in the middle of the room - Dean liked familiar environments - and the 90's aesthetic.

He had been being on this side of the glass for too many days now. Looking for someone to perform with Dean onstage hadn't been easy. Apparently no one performed alone anymore, and while it was supposed to be all about One, there was a trend to have someone to shadow him. 'Echo' him, in more meaningful teams, perhaps.

Bobby had been incredibly picky about this. Some were too good; some were really not. Some were too boring to actually be seen, and some actually had too much of a overpowering personality. And it was not as if Bobby was going to give in to Benny or Victor, who'd been Dean's primary choices. It seemed as though there was no one to be found who'd fit with Dean on stage.

Maybe Dean was the problem. 

Brushing that unpleasant thought aside, Dean stood up and went past the little doorway to the other side of the glass. Feeling more at home, in the cool area, he put on his headphones and relished the feeling of blocking out the World through it. It'd been a while since he'd sang with headphones on - almost a fortnight - and Dean suddenly warmed up to the idea of singing alone. 

Since it was kind-of after hours, there was no one else at Singer Music but him, Bobby, and the receptionist Tessa. Of course, he'd done it so many times before, but he could never tire of singing songs of his own will, to the furniture of this room which had almost become like his own. Sure, Bobby had other clients, and many people used the studio, but Dean felt at home in here. Like it was his space.

The producer hearing him sing wasn't such a bad idea.  

He cleared his throat, drawing in a deep breath, and closing his eyes.

"I know that it's gonna take some time, I've gotta admit that the thought has crossed my mind," Dean begun, absentmindedly.

**Click** !

Dean's eyes shot open, in surprise, as he heard the door closing. There was someone standing, on the other side of the glass. Dean's eyes fell on the intruder, and  _ fucking  _ lingered.

He was dressed in a beige trench-coat, with stiff sleeves, and a darker lapel which tapered off towards the end, inwards, revealing a formal attire with a black blazer and formals. He was at least six feet tall, with a lean build, and broad shoulders. The layered outfit told little of his physique, but when Dean's eyes slowly traced up the cobalt-blue tie; he was truly speechless, at the enthralling sight which followed.

The man had a sturdy jawline, with the five-o'clock shadow being almost a formality to go with black hair, which was combed in no particular direction, but couldn't have been called 'messed-up' for the World. His entire profile was a fascinating study; from the perfect lines of contour of his cheeks, to his lips - a pale chapped pink, with delicious curves, but what Dean stayed stuck on for the most time, were the eyes.

His eyes was an irresistible sapphire blue, a color which Dean had no idea existed outside of catalogs, let alone in human irises; but they were indeed blue, though dark and bright they seemed alternately. Abundant lashes clouded the eyes, and his dark pupils seemed fixed on Dean, observant and striking. 

He felt himself draw in another breath, because he suddenly felt an intense need to ventilate; blood rushing to his cheeks for no reason at all, except perhaps the handsome man staring at him.

Neither said a word for what seemed like a beat, before Dean's eyes widened in realization.

_ The Producer! _

Awkward wave, or hesitant smile?

Apparently both, Dean's instincts leaped in to rule, and before he knew it, Dean was waving weakly like a moron to him, a smile fretting on his lips.

He waved back, with a confident smile.

_Go to the other side and talk to him!_ His voice of reason urged _. And stop staring like a creepy jackass! He's getting weirded out, for sure!_

But, his voice of no-reason-at-all triumphed.

And Dean gestured to his mike, and smiled a little more, with a raise of his eyebrows in inquiry.  _ Continue? _

The man blinked, before nodding minutely. 

Weird, Dean thought. But the man was showing no other movements. He was just looking at Dean. Anticipatingly, he gauged; and cleared his throat.

The best thing to do would be to sing. Dean had a habit of closing his eyes as he sang, and the lesser he stared at the man, the better. So, Dean readjusted his headphones, tentatively held the mike in his hand, and returned to his song. "I know that it's gonna take some time, I've gotta admit that the thought has crossed my mind," he begun, and unconsciously his eyes flitted up to meet the latter's again.

Dean felt a sense of annoyance rush through him. The man hadn't even put on headphones yet. Dean gestured with his hands, at the pair lying on Bobby's side, and slowly, it seemed as though realisation dawned on the man. He put it on; the attached microphone getting stuck at the corner of his lip. Blue eyes stared at the mike for a moment, eyelids almost closed, and then looked up at Dean as though personally offended.

Dean didn't know if he should laugh, apologise, or teach the guy to wear headphones right through the glass. He chose none of the above, and merely observed him trying to wreck the device, twisting the mike in order to prevent all contact with his skin.

Fuck, those were Bobby's.

Dean looked as the producer was able to get the headphones to the size apt for him; the mic grazing across his cheek, and stubble.

"You good?" Dean asked, stupidly.

"I can hear you perfectly." Was the curt reply; the deep octave of the voice surprising him. It was almost as low as a growl, and husky like he was purposefully making it so; a voice perfect for a whole lot of songs that Dean's voice was resentfully inappropriate for.

"So, should I?" Dean didn't have to wait for an answer, because the man's head whipped away from him towards the door, and Dean's followed, as another figure entered the room. Clad in a black tuxedo, with a black beard and Cheshire Cat-like smile, and with a word on his lips which Dean could lipread. His own name, announced with enthusiasm. 

"Crowley!" Dean got off his headphones with a single hand, placing it safely on the stool before marching out to the other side. Crowley advanced at a similar pace, and reached Dean as he went through the doorframe. Dean stared at him for a fraction of a second, before he hugged the friend he'd not seen since the last eight years. So many good times; so many memories. So much rushing to the front of his head, and crowding his senses, as he thumped the shorter man on his back, with a large smile.

The information that Crowley was back in town, had  _ not  _ prepared him for such an encounter.

Crowley seemed equally eager, and even when Dean pulled back, he continued to stare at Dean, unabashedly. With eyes which only reminded Dean of the old jackass who'd moved away to Germany.

"Dean!" Crowley repeated, the exhilarating grin wearing off into a snide smirk now. "I see you got rid of Disney-inspired hairdo." He earned himself a glare. Crowley knew how obsessive Dean had been of his hair back then, and how embarrassed he was now. "You don't look half as much of a twink now."

"And I see you brought back enough middle for two men your height," Dean retorted. Crowley was rounded up, like Dean had never seen before. "You look doubly as much of a grumpy old geezer now."

"Fuck you, I'm in my prime."

"What you're in is my recording studio." The possessive pronoun was inattentively used. "And I'd like to know what the  _ fuck  _ you're doing here after all this time."

"In America, or in front of your ugly mug?" 

"Both." Dean glared, straining to not smile. It was too much like before. The same freaking sense of humour; neither of them had grown. Dean liked that fact. His eye somehow caught the former member of the room, who was watching the exchange curiously. Dean felt a pang -  _ Personal shit in front of a producer was unprofessional _ \- but he didn't look mad at all.

Crowley's eyes shone wickedly. "What I'm doing in America, is rendering my services to up-and-coming artists, and making stars out of them. And what I'm doing in here, is revisiting my junior to ask him an important question."

"Junior, my ass." Dean narrowed his eyes.

"I know I moved away and broke your little heart. I know you're probably mad, but I need to ask. Do I have to start all over again? Or, can I pick up where I left? Do I get to un-pause?" Crowley asked dramatically, even batting his eyelashes and shit. Dean snorted unbecomingly, again forgetting the third man in the room.

Dean had to clear his throat to keep in the, 'No chick-flick moments'. He knew it'd be exactly what Crowley would want. "Where's  _ that _ crap from?"

"Lily and Marshal," Interrupted the voice which had held Dean enthralled only minutes ago. Crowley and Dean turned to look at him. "How I met your mother." He added, helpfully. "American sitcom with Ted Mosby telling his kids the story of, well, how he met their mother."

Even better looking up close, Dean cursed under his breath, almost moving past the useless fact. "Yeah," He muttered, turning towards him and trying not to look all about him at once. It was challenging. "And I'm sorry about this interruption; I'll resume after a break if you don't mind, Mr. Krushnic-" Dean was glad to have remembered the name in the nick of time.

_ "Excuse me?"  _ Crowley cut in. "What did I interrupt?"

"Mr. Krushnic is a produ-"

"No, he's not!" Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Crowley, what the-" Dean begun, irritably.

"He's my client!" Crowley proceeded to add, making Dean shut up. "I picked him up from the other side of the Iron Curtain on my way here." He added, with a smug look.

Dean blinked at the man in question. "So, you're not-"

"A producer?" Fuck, that voice again. And those searching blue eyes boring into Dean's; traces of a frown. "I never said I was." He paused for a moment. "And Crowley's history is poor. As is his geography. I'm Castiel." He thrust out his hand to Dean, though Dean's eyes still hung onto the latter's eyes. "Novak." He added.

"Krushnic!" Crowley interjected, almost correctingly. Dean frowned, deeply.

"Castiel  _ Novak _ ." Castiel repeated, more firmly.

Dean finally took the latter's hand - warm, and larger than Dean's - and when they drew back, Dean exchanged a look with Crowley, trying to clarify the things running in his mind, almost at once. "Stop screwing around for a moment. Were you the producer by the name of Krushnic who had an appointment here?"

Crowley grinned. "Not really."

"And I go by the name of Novak." Castiel added. "That was a mistake.*

Dean exhaled. "Okay." He swallowed, uncertainly. "So, there's a producer last-named Krushnic coming to see me, or not?"

"He was always a little slow, you know," Crowley spoke in a passing comment to Castiel, who stayed expressionless. Dean huffed. Crowley turned to Dean. "Look. I wanted myself to be a surprise-"

"-Unpleasant and unwanted-"

"-so I used his name instead." He glanced at Castiel. "Except now, it's not his name apparently. He's stuck on Novak." Castiel had a stubborn look on his face, his chin jutting out.

Understanding dawned on Dean. "Okay." He bit his lip. "Okay. Why did you have to do so much crap? Just come and see me in my apartment or something."

"I had a business proposal," Crowley smirked. "And I couldn't very well have shown up at your crappy residence with a guest. I wanted Castiel to meet my best friend."

"We're not best friends."

"He dragged me along." Castiel explained, finally talking directly to Dean with a hint of a smile. "I didn't have a chance to argue."

"Tell me about it." Dean relaxed, grinning back. "Hangout with a bunch of times, and 'best friend'?" He finger-gunned himself.

"Go to hell," Crowley hissed. "Both of you."

"So, business." Dean reminded, ignoring Crowley's interruption. "What do you have for me?" It was his professional tone.

"Your game face is getting better," Crowley bounced back from the insult, surprisingly spontaneously. But then, he'd always been like that. "What I have is going to blow your minds off, though." Dean raised an eyebrow. " _ How  _ would you like to do the closing act for the MSA?"

Music Sounds Awards. Mostly for veterans in the business. Seven years in, Dean couldn't hope to qualify as a veteran. But, he remembered what Bobby had always started negotiations with. "Who is opening?"

Crowley was taken aback for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

Dean went for the reliable mysterious half-smirk, his eyes not leaving Crowley's. Maybe Castiel was watching from the side, too. That would make a good impression; as someone who knew what he was doing. Mostly.

"Okay!" Crowley gave up, after a beat of silence. "Okay, I'll move the Dreamcatchers to closing!"

"And which other acts are you in charge of?" Dean grinned, proud of himself.

"Dean." Crowley sounded tentative. "You can't-"

"You can't very well only have the  _ second _ and  _ third _ most sought-for slots." Dean tried for the air of expertise. He thinks he heard an impressed sound from the side.

Crowley stares at him for a little longer. "Dean, the Angels of Hell won't possibly do any other slot but-"

Angels of Hell, Dean grimaced. "Guess what? Me neither, Crowley."

"You're good." Even Crowley's voice had an impressed note in it. Dean could've burst with pride. "You're _ very  _ good."

"And you're gonna have to talk to Bobby; I only pretend to be in charge of myself." Dean added, making Crowley grin.

"All this trouble for nothing?" He sighed.

"Not for nothing," Dean teased. "I just kicked your ass at something that's supposed to be your job."

"I was totally going easy on you, squirrel."

"Oh,  _ God,  _ not that." Dean drew back.

"Uh-uh,  _ squirrel. _ " Crowley chuckled. "Missed it much?"

"Bite me."

"Still not over that phase?" Crowley winked.

Castiel quietly chuckled, finally becoming a part of the conversation. Dean flamed red, and resisted the urge to flip off Crowley, barely.

"Anyways," Crowley looked so much like the old-him with that insincere smile, that Dean could swear. "Where do I find this Bobby?"

"Outside." Dean gestured.

"Well then, we'll catch up later, Dean." Crowley grinned. "I have your manager to impress." Dean rolled his eyes; Bobby wouldn't stand any of Crowley's crap, as far as he knew the man. Dean had himself had a strong dislike to Crowley back in highschool. He could come off as a terrible jerk, at first. All the time, really. You just get used to it with time. "I'll see you over dinner sometime. You have my number, right?"

Dean scowled. "No, I threw it away when you moved away. You know, good riddance."

"Ah, you're still hurting." Crowley responded, cheerfully. "Don't worry, the wound will heal now. Here." He handed Dean his card, and added, in Castiel's direction. "Meet you by the car in five." He walked away, without another word of farewell. Just as he'd vanished without a trace to Germany. Fucking typical.

"Gonna take longer than that to suck up to Bobby Singer." Dean muttered, inattentively.

"I trust so." Castiel replied, and Dean  _ suddenly  _ realised that he was in a metres distance from Castiel. "Hope you don't mind me waiting here."

"Sure." Dean said, distractedly, captivated by the way his hands moved when he talked. "Wait away."

There was silence for a moment.

Dean stopped staring at the ground, to look at Castiel, who was looking at him expectantly almost. His blue eyes were rounded, and his lips were slightly quirked upwards. "I'm Dean Winchester, by the way."

"I think I got that." This was a full-blown smile, and Dean was pretty sure he felt himself mirror it. "From the reunion."

Dean caught sight of dimples, and flailed ashamedly, before regaining himself. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. And, I guess you could call it a reunion."

"So, both of you attended the same school?"

"Lawrence High, Kansas."

"I wouldn't have heard of it."

"Right. Sorry," Dean mumbles. "Your English is pretty good, you know." He strives to add, as a defense.

"For a Russian? You see, I've spent time in several countries of Europe." Castiel explained. Travelling has always been desirable to Dean. And Castiel has the air of someone who's seen the World. He's somehow always speaking in proper sentences, and like he completely comprehends whatever situation he's a part of. Up close, Dean realises that he's probably older than him. He can just imagine Castiel going from country to country - he can actually imagine him in crowded train coaches, and backpacking near mountains. Damn you, Titanic, for installing all of that into Dean's imagination. Now all he can do is  _ not  _ imagine Castiel in a white shirt and gallaces.  _ Fuck. _

"That sounds interesting." Dean manages, understanding that it's been far too long that he uttered a sound.

"I take it you were classmates."

"No, he was a Sophomore when I was Freshman. And Senior when we met." Dean elaborates. "Hence, the 'Junior'."

"We don't call our grades by those names." Castiel blinked.

"Oh, well, Freshman is basically ni-"

"I did understand what you meant, though." Castiel interrupts. "Regardless."

"So, this your first time around America?" Dean asked, making conversation because silence was dangerous, when Dean couldn't keep his eyes away for the welfare of all of his self-respect.. "Or you've been here before?"

"No, this is my first time." Castiel's smile wore off slightly. "And it's one of the most...alive places I've ever been."

"On the behalf of the United States, I take that to be a compliment and thank you for it."

Castiel laughed, throwing back his head, and Dean couldn't help but fucking stare again. "The pleasure's all mine."

"So, anyways, they air American sitcoms in Russia?" Dean asked, teasingly.

"I suppose one might get Netflix anywhere," Castiel pronounces it carefully. Dean likes the definition of every syllable as he hears it. "But, speaking for myself, I only discovered it around here." Dean smiles. "First night at the hotel, and it's the channel Crowley settled on, for me to watch while he went out."

"You've been living in a hotel, with Crowley?" Dean frames, ready to laugh.

"I have only been here four days, and I've had no other choice." Castiel deadpans. "Crowley has difficulties understanding boundaries, because he, as my agent, takes me everywhere he goes. I'm only thankful that at night, we have separate,  _ albeit  _ neighboring rooms." Castiel pauses. "Is me saying these things offensive?" He asks, suddenly.

"You can bitch to me about him; I understand the reactions from an overdose of Crowley." Dean nods, sympathetically. Boy, I sure am sorry for you." Dean says, distractedly again, because while speaking, Castiel had shuffled closer to him. A newer angle - and Dean's taller by, perhaps an inch.

"And it's been far too long since I made new friends." Castiel confesses, almost ranting now. "I suppose I never understood the need. But now, I feel like I'm the only one who's out of place here; who doesn't already know everyone on the streets."

"I get it." Dean promises, quieting down, because he got the feeling Castiel wasn't done yet.

"It's a strange feeling, because I have moved all my life, but never had these thoughts." Castiel admitted, almost with a quitting sigh.

Dean's heart went out to him. Had he really only known this man just a few minutes? Sure felt otherwise. "It's okay to feel this stuff." Why does he sound like Dr. Phil?

"You must feel as though I'm shedding my loads on you." Castiel's voice turned hoarser than usual, and Dean realized that he looked embarrassed.

"No!" Dean argued, a bit too loudly perhaps. "I mean, I understand the need to park your baggage, and if you feel better, that's what I'm here for." Why does he sound like  _ Oprah  _ now? Why the  _ fuck  _ does he sound like Oprah?

Castiel sniffs. "You're very understanding, Dean."

"I just know what you feel like. Wasn't a different continent, but I've started afresh before. It isn't easy." Dean goes back to seven years ago. It had been terrifying, even with Sam at his side. Castiel, on the other hand, was alone.

"I know." Castiel said, quietly. "But, it's an element of free will. Taking your own decisions takes you down difficult paths. But it's these paths which turn you into the person you're destined to be all along."

"That belongs on a Hallmark card."

"I have no idea what that means."

Dean coughed. "Right. I forgot."

"I know." Castiel smiled. "I'll learn to understand these references soon, I hope. People look at me all weird when I tell them that I don't understand something like that."

Dean's eyes widen in urgency. "Back up a bit, did  _ I  _ look at you like that?"

"No, you looked at me just fine." Castiel grins, even his gums showing. It looks adorable, and completely changes the serious persona. 

"It was mixture of I'm-worried-this-man-won't-understand-most-of-what-I-say and How-did-I-forget-I-was-talking-to-a-European, if you wished to know." Dean jokes, earning himself almost too formal a smile. "Europeans apparently aren't as telltale as I've always assumed they  _ all  _ were." Dean grins back. "I have a friend who's Scottish-French, and he has this pressing accent, though he's been here for as long as I can remember."

"I studied in France, for almost two years."

"I could take you to meet him, maybe." Dean dabbles, stupidly.

"Really?"

"You know, expand your horizon, maybe? What are friends for?" Dean went on.

Castiel shot a gummy smile at him again, and his entire face crinkled up. Dean could do little but weakly smile back. Castiel was unfairly good-looking. 

There's silence for a minute, and Castiel is looking at Dean. 'What are friends for?' Seriously? He could have done so much better.

Dean realizes it was his turn to say something. "Oh, and by the way? The next time a guy mistakes you for a producer and starts to sing for you,  _ tell  _ him that you're not one, 'kay?"

Castiel's face lights up. "I was surprised too."

"Nobody judges you for being surprised, if you step into a room and are greeted by a weird man serenading the furniture."

Castiel laughs, not unkindly.

"I mean, if Crowley hadn't come in then, I'd have continued singing Daughtry to you." Dean adds, liking that he finally made Castiel laugh again. It'd been all on his mind since he got Castiel to laugh a while back.

"I'd have liked that." Castiel informs Dean, who shies from the praise. "You sounded very good. I might have been surprised, but I was definitely also pleased that you were singing to me." To him.  _ To him. _

"I was only singing for you because I thought you were a producer." Dean defends, unnecessarily.

"You won't sing for me, now that you know that I'm not?" Castiel asked, innocently, but Dean had to struggle to keep the blood rushing to his cheeks from showing. He was behaving like he was 17, again. "It was an unfortunate mistake to tell you that I'm not a producer, then."

Was he really being praised for two lines he'd somehow sang? "'Kay, dude, don't act up." A valorous attempt to look casual. "All you've got to do is ask nicely."

"Would you sing for me now?" Castiel's rich voice shred the silence which had settled in following Dean's bad try to sound unaffected.

"At least buy me dinner first," Dean joked lamely, before realizing that the latter had, in fact, taken his words seriously. Or maybe he just had a really good sarcastic deadpan.

Contemplating, he nodded, and then added with a little curve of the corner of his lips. "That can be arranged."

Dean let out a weak laugh. "If things do come to that, I better be on the organizing side of this da - dinner." Fuck, what had be been about to say?

Castiel looked like he hadn't noticed. "That would be a favor to both of us, Dean."

_ How does tonight sound?  _ Dean restrained himself. "So, are we now serious or kidding?" He didn't want to get his hopes up.

"What?" Raised eyebrows.

"Serious, then." Dean muttered under his breath. Castiel fixed him with a questioning look. "I mean, this conversation did start off on a joke, you know." He added, evasively.

"What part of this was not meant seriously?" Eyebrows raised higher still.

"Nevermind." Dean took a deep breath. He was doing this, wasn't he? "Here's my card." He picked one from the ever-present pile on the desk. He'd had it recently made - Kevin's suggestion. He didn't do a job which required a business card, he'd argued, but Kevin had told him that all important people held name cards now. It was 'in'. 

Dean suddenly remembered that it'd be difficult to reach him on the numbers noted, without intermediaries, and scribbled his personal number on the back of it, in scrawling blue fonts.

Castiel stared at him, before taking it from him. 

"You're supposed to call me on this one." Dean clarified.

"Why keep a card then?"

"Not many people I give my card to, call to make dinner plans." Dean smiles, because Castiel is smiling too.

"I can't say I'm not thrilled to hear that."

"You don't look thrilled." Dean speaks up, cursing under his breath the moment the words leave his lips, because who the  _ fuck  _ says things like that? What was wrong with him today? Where had the charming Dean Winchester gone, and who was this dense son of a bitch feeding him words?

"That's because I was going for subtlety, along with the flirtation."

"Which was wasted on me," Dean tries to keep a blush off his face. What is up with that today? "And, I'm sorry for that."

"Nevermind." He repeated, almost pointedly quoting Dean. There was a beat of silence, which was punctuated with Dean blinking at Castiel's perfect smile. Then suddenly, he begun leaning in.

Was he going in for a kiss?

His blood made a mad rush for his dick. Fuck, was he going in for a kiss?

Dean would definitely kiss him back, if that were the case. Because it'd frankly been unsettling to want to kiss a man that much, in the very first meeting. So, he would kiss back. Probably slide an arm around his waist. Perhaps even cup his face, to hold him there. With his lips against Dean's. Dean wondered if he'd taste nice. Would it be open-mouthed?

What even was the last thing Dean had eaten?

Dean could've gotten whiplash from the speed of thoughts; it turned out to be a dreadful anticlimax. Dean exhaled, and pursed his lips. Bad,  _ bad  _ brain.

Castiel had leaned in to pick another white business card from the pile behind Dean. He looked at Dean's face amusedly, before straightening, and swiftly plucking the loosely held pen from Dean's fingers, and writing his own number in the back on the card, like Dean had done. He even afforded a little smile, as he handed it back. "Here."

"Using my business card as an Old Yellow Legal Pad; wouldn't like this to become a trend." Dean almost whispered, having lost his voice to much surprise, but desperate to make matters lighter.

"I wouldn't worry if I were you." Castiel whispered back - his voice even thicker now. "You're quite renowned too, Dean."

"Matter of time before you get your big break too, Cas." Dean didn't know why he said it. It just poured out naturally. He had no idea what it is that Castiel did, and if or not he was allowed to call him that. It just came out, and sounded right.

" _ Castiel _ ."

"Strictly so?"

"I never gave it much thought." Castiel smiled, jestingly. "I suppose I was taking it for granted that I'd be called by what was my full name." 

"Yeah, I'm surrounded by shortened namesat home, and I just am used to it," Dean joined in. "Bobby for Robert, Chuck for Charles, and Sam for Samantha." He grinned, missing Sam's cued interruption at this.

"And, what's Dean short for?"

"Guess."

"I don't see the connection between your name and 'Guess'."

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?" Dean laughed, gleefully.

Castiel smiled; dimples again. 

"So, am I or am I not allowed to call you Cas?"

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows. 

"Cas Novak has a nice ring to it, you've got to admit." Dean was practically blabbering now. But,  _ too far in to step out.  _ Might as well come out the other side.

"Cas  _ Novak _ ." Castiel repeated, a smile slowly sprouting up. "It sounds nice. Call me that, sure." Suddenly,a traditional Apple ringtone sounds.  _ Who the hell doesn't have a customized ringtone now, _ Dean begins to wonder, right before Castiel glances at the screen of his phone, before silencing it, without picking it up.

"That was Crowley." He frowns, evidently.

"If he is too much for you, give me a ring." Dean mutters, unthinkingly. "I'll come pick you up."

"My knight in Shining Armour." Castiel mockingly sighs, before smiling largely. Dimples, gums, the whole deal. No, it hadn't worn off, though Dean had been praying that it might. Still illogically good looking. The guy could be a model if he wanted. "But the joke is on me, as they say, because I might just take you up on that generous offer."

Dean has to keep himself from blushing. 

"That is, unless his desperateness becomes a deal-breaker." He adds; Dean grins this time, because Castiel just silenced another call from Crowley. "I must get going, Dean. But it's been great talking to you."

_ It's been  _ **_exciting_ ** _ talking to you.  _ Dean felt, would be more appropriate as a reply. But he managed, "Yeah, you too."

"Thank you." Castiel waved the card in the air, before stuffing it into his pocket, and smiling one last time before walking out.

"See you 'round, Cas."

***

"Hey, look!" Dean interrupted Sam, from his deep reverie of watching America's Got Talent on his laptop. Sam was sitting cross-legged on Dean's couch, and he looked up abruptly, hitting pause, his head jerking up and making his hair bounce. 

"Yeah?"

"Does this look like a 'zero', or a 'six' to you?" Dean asked, unthinkingly holding out the white card in front of the latter's nose.

Sam looked over the card at Dean's face, with incredulity. "What are you doing, Dean?"

"I'm..saving a number?"

Sam cleared his throat, and folded down his laptop's screen. Getting ready for a long conversation, that is. Dean cursed under his breath as he saw the smirk settle on his brother's stupid face. "Dean, whose number is that?"

"That's not important." Dean drew the card back, and determinedly begun to stare at the screen of his own iPhone, and mostly at the illegible digits on the back of his card. Guy's handwriting was even worse than his.

"Dean,  _ seriously _ , whose number are  _ you  _ saving in your phone?" Sam urged.

"None of your business," Dean snapped, glaring at his brother, who refused to back down. Losing in a staring match to Sam's puppy-dog-eyes, he sighed, and added in a calmer voice. "It's just a guy I met."

"I didn't know you were meeting guys." 

"You don't know everything going on in my life - try not to sound like you should." Dean replied, not unkindly, but Sam frowned at him disapprovingly. "And, I wasn't out  _ looking  _ to mingle or shit, this guy's Crowley's client. Came with him to the studio, and we kinda talked for, like, five minutes."

Sam didn't look impressed with Dean's answer. "The guy gave you his number after small talk?"

_ That was not small-talk. That was nothing like small talk.  _ "We exchanged numbers in case we wanted to hangout later. The guy's new in America, you know."

"Yeah. I guess." Sam looked adequately satisfied. He readjusted his laptop. "Sounds good that you're doing a favor for Crowley." Dean raised an eyebrow. "You know, by friend-ing up his client?" Sam returned to his laptop.

Dean hadn't even thought of it that way.

Fuck, was that the normal way to think of it?

A kind-of popular singer was doing his 'agent' friend a favor by taking said friend's new client to dinner? A professional meeting, of some sorts? Maybe even to make Cas feel as though Crowley knew the important people - though Dean was  _ far  _ from being that, in the industry; he knew he had some sort of a vibe.

And here, Dean had been conjuring up 'date' scenarios in his mind?

Okay, not really 'Date' date.

Okay, 'Date' date.

Maybe Dean had been befitting his brain with too many fairy-tales. 

'Confusing reality with porn', more like; with Castiel being the immigrant newcomer, and Dean being the -

_ Okay, stop it. _

Dean's brain always had good fun making big deals of nothing. It was a miscommunication. Big deal. It wasn't like Dean hadn't been waiting for Cas' call, or rearing up for some action. That wasn't the story at all. Not even close.

Come to think of it, Castiel had dropped no hints whatsoever about being interested in Dean.

And Dean had confidence in himself when it came to partners, but there was no way he could get a guy who looked like that. Not even in his fucking dreams.

"Yeah." Dean muttered, long after Sam had stopped speaking and un-paused his show. "That's what I'm doing, alright. Helping out the bastard."

"Making amends?" Sam spoke quietly, though Dean hadn't even been sure that he'd heard him.

" _ I  _ don't have to do that." Dean retorted, earnestly. There was silence again for a while, except for Tyra Banks introducing a new contestant.

"That was a zero, by the way."

Dean didn't say anything, but finished saving the number.

He could be a friend, at least, for someone who was in need of one. That made it sound desperate. Castiel wasn't desperate. Even when he was talking of being 'lonely', he was oozing charm, and ease. It was insensible how in control of himself, he always looked. But still, Dean wouldn't let a decent guy like that be lonely if he could help it. It was common courtesy.

After a few moments of contemplating silence, Dean shoved himself out of his seat and nudged Sam to the side, so that he could join in on the watching. Sam was a bitch about sharing, and Dean ended up turning on the big screen, for himself. Only then, AGT was no longer fun, and he landed on Rambo instead. Grinning, he turned the volume up until Sam couldn't even watch his show with plugged headphones and grumbled at him as he left the room for the one which he'd designated his own, in Dean's apartment.

They had Thai for dinner - ordered in - and Sam prepared to leave, after the customary watching of football highlights after dinner. Dean waved him away from the balcony, laughing mercilessly as Sam took unbelievably long getting to his car because a stray Labrador really wanted attention. Dean then retreated to his room for the night, put on 'Hey Jude' in his bedroom, and mumbled along as he prepared to settle in for the night. No wild plans, he mused; the first few months of the 'singer' life had been full of all-nighters and parties. 

Stripping down to just his boxers, he collapsed face first onto his mattress, with a sigh as it cushioned up perfectly, enveloping him almost. 

He fell asleep, thinking of the next day's match between Belgium and Brazil, of his surprising meeting with Crowley, and of confiding to Bobby that he wanted to perform again - even if it was something small-scale. He was getting tired of going to sleep to nothing important on his mind.

The last things that crossed his mind before he fell asleep were Balthazar's party the upcoming weekend, and Chuck's song.

And inescapably, of impossibly blue eyes - crinkling - with a breathtaking curve of the lips - Cas Novak. Sorry, Castiel Krushnic. Dean was too drowsy for this right now. He was asleep in no time at all.

_ A Smile From You, and That Was That. _

 

 

 

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, awesome humans. A little bit about me, thy author: I'm Sheya, I'm from India, I'm 15. A Sam-girl and I ship Destiel with every fibre of my being. You can find me on Tumblr [Here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/misha-moose-dean-burger-lover) You're welcome to visit.
> 
> I'm sorry the updates aren't very regular, but I promise some work is constantly being done on the story. If you enjoyed the chapter, please leave a trail. Comments are the best way of letting me know you liked the story. Thank you for reading the first chapter! Take care of yourselves like you mean it, and remember to do the things that make you happy! Have an amazing day! 
> 
> Keep It Sailing.


	2. "Is Bucky Barnes gay for Steve Rogers?"

A sound disturbed his restful sleep, causing him to stir, and open his eyes. Without thinking of what could've been causing it, he turned to lie on his back, closing his eyes. As if on cue, same freakin' noise. Dean swore groggily, drawling out the vowels, as he tried to place the sounds.

He wondered for a moment if he'd forgotten to turn off his music player, the night before. He almost always slept to a soft record.

Dean grumbled again, and tried to shut off the outside world, by screwing his eyes shut. The last night had been a long one; he didn't even remember when he'd returned to his apartment, as karaoke with Jo had turned into an all-nighter.

_Smoke on the water, fire in the sky. Smoke on the water._   
_They burned down the gambling house. It died with an awful sound._

Fuck, that was his ringtone.

Making some sense of his surroundings, he shoved himself halfway upright. After making some sense of his surroundings, Dean scrambled in the sheets for his phone. Grabbing the ringing phone, he received the call and swallowed the urge to groan right into the receiver.

"Yeah?"

"Dean?" Came a gruff, yet hesitant voice, which Dean had trouble placing, at least in his current state. "Dean, is this your number? Say something if this is you. Dean? Dean?"

Dean realized with a delay, that it was his turn to say something. "Yeah?" He mumbled again; a gigantic yawn blurring the single syllable into an incomprehensible grunt.

"Dean? Is this Dean Winchester? Dean, can you hear me? Dean, is this even you?"

"Yeah, that's my name; don't wear it out." Dean muttered back, still trying to identify the voice.

"Dean? This is Castiel Novak."

Dean stopped himself from choking on air. Three days after their first acquaintance, now the guy calls! After Dean has let go of his high hopes - frankly, of any hopes at all - that's when he calls. Fucking bastard.

"Dean, are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here." Castiel sounded genuinely distressed by now, and the sharply concerned tone woke Dean up a bit. "Mornin', Cas." He muttered, in an uncertain manner.

"Hello, Dean." Dean could hear Castiel smiling and exhaling at the same time, and before he knew it, there was a mental image which he was not prepared for. Castiel's eyes crinkling up, and his nose scrunching upwards as the corners of his lips curl, and he's displaying a smile. Dean breathes out himself - it'd taken a couple of cold showers to get the first meeting off of his head, and here he was back to imagining him again.

"Yeah, hey. What's up?" Dean said, lamely.

Castiel was quiet for a moment. "I'm fine, Dean. How are you?"

Dean wondered if this was another one of those classic deadpans. "I'm awake." Dean replied, inattentively.

"Dean?" Castiel asked again, and Dean hummed shortly in answer, getting out of bed. "Did I wake you up? Were you asleep?"

"Yes?" Dean said, still not awake enough to be polite and lie. "Why were you not, dude?"

"Oh, it's lasting effects of jet-lag. I sleep much too soon, and am awake far too early for America." Castiel slipped into an explanatory tone. "I slept at nine yesterday, and was awake by five. I'm sorry to have curtailed your sleep, Dean, but I'd been contemplating how early it'd be normal for me to call you, since when I woke. I'm supposing six was a wrong estimation."

"The answer is ten, just for future reference." Dean finally managed to reach the ground, and blinked at the wall-clock - it showed four minutes past six. "But, it's fine. What's done is done, right? What d'ya need?"

Castiel was silent for a beat. "I didn't need anything. I was just calling to see if it was a good time to talk."

Dean was stumped. Was this another joke too high-end for him? "I'm sorry?"

"I was wondering," Castiel's voice almost trailed off. "I mean-" Silence for a full moment. Dean waited, growing impatient with the passing seconds. You don't wake a guy up to talk and then not do so. "I'm sorry. Forget about it, Dean. This was ridiculous. You can go back to sleep, Dean."

"You don't tell me what I can or cannot do." Dean lazily muttered, before tsking. "What is wrong, Cas? You're okay, right?"

"I don't know." Dean involuntarily raises his eyebrows. "I'm lonely."

Dean, for the second time since morning, barely managed to stop himself from choking on air. Scenarios cooked up in his head, as his barely awake mind covered all the bases of stupid, which were accessible through the phrase.

Fuck, that was not a good way to imagine this leading up to.

"What are you talking about?"

"I woke up at five," Castiel continued, sounding unsure. "There was nothing for me to do, and Crowley has been out since yesterday afternoon. I believe he's gone somewhere for business. I had an interview yesterday, but since, I've watched all of the pay-per-view movies at this hotel, and I've positively run out of things to do. Watching How I Met Your Mother is not how I wish to start the morning again, and though it's tempting to re-watch The Avengers, I'm afraid twice in a couple of days can make you start wishing for something else. I suppose, I am just missing human contact, and the offer you'd made the other day seemed very tempting. I was afraid you weren't quite sincere about it, and that I'd impose myself on you, so I'd been holding back - but I'm at the end of my patience now, and I suppose manners are already quite compromised since I'm waking you up for no reason at all, and now speaking on end for minutes - so, can we talk, Dean?" There was beat of silence. Then a breath let out into the receiver. "Please?"

Dean didn't even know why he was smiling. "Look, send me your address. I'll be there in fifteen."

"No, I don't want to bother you like that!" Castiel protested. "That's not why I told you all of this."

Dean bit his lip, to stop himself from fucking laughing. "I know that's not why you narrated your sob-fest of a life, to me." He drew in a deep breath. "Cas, just text me the address of your hotel. It's not bothering, if I offer to do it."

"Dean," Castiel sounded anxious now. As if it meant the apocalypse. "I really didn't mean to disturb you like this. You're taking this much too seriously. I'm lonely, not dying; you needn't drive all the way here for nothing."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Not for nothing, idiot," he sighed. "I'm driving there to bring you back to my place. And, believe me, it's not because of pity or something - frankly, 'doing nothing' as you describe it sounds like a dream. It's because," Dean wavered. "Just because."

Because you're cute, and I'd like to see you again, and make you feel better like I'd originally resolved to, because I'm freaking lame like that! Plus, you sound miserable. And, yes, I really want to see you again.

Just because.

Yeah, one and the same.

"Dean, I would feel as though I'm forcing myself onto you again." The note of concern had been replaced by an unreadable tone of insecurity. "You have, as they say, a life."

Dean ran a hand through his hair, and looked at the ceiling in annoyance. His bedroom's white ceiling stared back at him. "Dude, d'you have to stubborn, right now? Give me a rest. I just woke up."

Castiel exhaled, and Dean could again hear him smiling as he said the next words. "Dean, I still am not sure if this is a good idea. I - I promise to return to the hotel when you feel you've had enough of me."

"I was worried you'd keep yourself in my condo against my will." Dean rolled his eyes at his reflection in the mirror, and Castiel laughed tentatively. "It's not as big a deal as you're making it, Cas. So, am I picking you up or what?"

"Fine; if you say so."

Fucking finally.

"You needn't drive here, though." Castiel cut him off. "I can manage that myself, at the very least. I'll hail a taxi, Dean."

"Okay, Charles Dickens." Who the fuck said that they'd 'hail' a taxi, anyways!? And Dean was looking forward to seeing Cas, but he wasn't overly generous either. "Just tell the guy my name."

"Just like that?"

"What? I'm totally kidding." Dean snorted, bemusedly. There was a pause. Why did Dean have to have such a lame sense of humor? "It's an apartment on 149 Sullivan Street, Manhattan."

"What floor?" Castiel's voice held hints of humor. "Or, of course, does your security guard escort me to your door when I tell him your name."

"He's one of the only people who could do that. Or, come to think of it, he might remember me forwarding him those god-awful cookies Gabriel baked for Christmas, and direct you into another building altogether. They kind of all look the same."

"You could be at the window, so that I know I have the right building."

"Well, There's a beautiful black Chevy parked out in the front. A '67 Impala. You couldn't mistake it for another." Dean smirked. "But if you manage to miss that somehow, you can just look for me instead. I'll be the good-looking guy waving the Stars and Stripes, from the balcony of the penthouse."

Castiel downright laughed at this, and Dean was immediately pleased with himself. "Well, I certainly couldn't overlook that, Dean." He declared, and Dean felt a wave of heat go through him at the light-hearted tone.

"Okay," Dean grumbled, annoyed that he's gotten flustered so easily. "Just give me a ring when you're close, and I'll unfurl the flag. I have a guest coming over now. I should dress up." Dean bit his lip, almost immediately. "Not that I'm not dressed right now. I meant, I'd dress in clothes which aren't these. Which I wear when people come in. Or I go out. I'm definitely not naked right now. I just meant - you know what I meant." Dean massaged his own forehead - he'd disappointed even himself now.

"Don't feel obligated to dress up just because of me." Castiel replied, serenely.

Dean felt his cheeks heat up, but knew that he had to continue the jest if he wished to not seem taken aback. "Sure. But you already interrupted my sleep, so you might as well also interrupt my naked-Saturdays agenda."

"Before I set out, Dean," Castiel spoke, after a pause. "We hardly know each other, and you're a busy man, I'm sure. Are you certain this is how you wish to start your weekend?"

"For a guy who's missing human contact after one day without it, you seem to have a dreadful hesitation in doing anything with me. Don't worry, I'm human enough." Dean grinned lazily. "Come on over, Cas."

***

Anyways, when Castiel called to tell him that the cab had taken a right into 95th, Dean went down to the lobby, to walk him up. He was just being a gentleman, of course. Europeans were big on the manners thing, weren't they?

Castiel showed up in a jersey and jeans, a memorable spark in his otherworldly blue eyes. Dean hadn't even realized how amazingly Castiel's memory had gotten etched in his mind, but he followed each step of the tall man, as he stepped out of the backseat, paid the cabbie, and hurried into the building on catching sight of Dean in the lobby, because it was pouring. Dean felt stupid for not having brought an umbrella. Though that would look stupid.

Two men sharing an umbrella for ten meters of rain.

Definitely stupid, yeah.

He greeted Dean, with a little smile, his hair patted down by the rain, and the ends dripping water. The sleeves of his collarless blue jersey had been rolled up to his sleeves, and an air-force blue muffler was wrapped around his neck, almost covering half his ears. Castiel looked subtly fascinating in his monsoon outfit, and Dean actually had to convince himself to look away. "Hello, Dean." The voice sounded much more majestic when combined with the appearance of Cas, and Dean had to smile back.

"Hey, traveler." Dean grinned back, gesturing to the scarf.

Castiel merely stared at him for a while. "I thought we'd decided that you get to call me 'Cas'."

"I decree that I don't need to get every nickname approved by you." Dean replied, unaffected. "Come on; my place is on the sixth floor." He led Castiel towards the elevator.

"Would you mind a question, Dean?"

"Uh, no?"

Castiel nodded. "Isn't this kind of a strange place? For, you know, a person whose name can be told to the taxi driver, in place of the actual address?" Castiel's lips are curling into a smile, already.

"Okay, first of all, that was a joke. Stop turning it on me," Dean narrowed his eyes; not really minding it. "And, I've got that reaction from people I've brought home before. I know this isn't the ideal neighborhood. But I guess, this place helps to remind me that I'm still in the making. I've had it for very long, and I've thought of moving into a bungalow before, but I always think that it's too big a change in my life, and being here has become so easy, that I'm not prepared to move out of Soho till I can buy myself a house in the Beverly Hills." He joked. "You know, that's a city in LA, where all the best-"

"I know what it is."

"Okay." Dean was silent. Had he said too much? Castiel's question had only been formal, right? He'd definitely not meant for Dean to launch into a spirited rant about his loyalties to real estate, and his issues with change.

Castiel's next words surprised him.

"So, how long did it take for this relationship to form? Since when do you live here?" Castiel asked, almost interestedly, as they stepped into the elevator together.

"This is the first apartment I've had in New York City." Dean informed Castiel, reminiscing to eight years back, instantly. "I had enough saved up for buying my own place for quite some time, and I was anxious to move out of Sam's place at Tribeca, because he was putting off Jessica moving in because of me - and I saw an ad in the Times, and I thought it was perfect."

"Sam, as in Samantha?" Castiel recalled.

Dean nodded, smirking. "Don't say it aloud in front of him - he's embarrassed of his full name. Thinks it's girly." Both of them laughed. "So, Sam's my brother." Dean continued, enthusiastically. There was something about how Castiel looked at him with eyebrows raised as if he were asking a question because he wanted to know the answer to it, and not just to entertain Dean and make conversation. It felt good. "I lived with him in the start because he had bought this amazing place with the earnings from his first big hit. He's the one who convinced me to take up performing as a career. I kinda owe him all of the best bits of my life right now."

Castiel nodded, with a little smile. "He's a singer too?"

"You don't know who Sam Winchester is?" Dean cocked an eyebrow. Castiel tilted his head to his left - negative. "Dude, where've you been all my life where I've been trying to tell people that not everyone knows my pain-in-the-ass little brother?"

"On the other side of the Atlantic." Castiel replied intelligently, making Dean roll his eyes at him. "Though, the name sounds familiar."

"We share the same last name."

"I couldn't tell." Dean laughed, before he could reign it in. Castiel smiled, as if he enjoyed it. "But I can't really place him. Is he more famous than you?" He was clearly kidding, but his eyes were completely innocent.

Dean sighed. "Hell, yes. He's easily tell-the-cabbie-his-name-and-tada famous. Sam's a lyricist. He prefers 'songwriter', for fanboy-ish reasons. You might've heard of 'To Beyond'? 'A Devil Within'?"

Castiel's expression changed. "I know of those!" There was that large smile on his face again. "'A Devil Within' is one of my favorite songs! That's why the name was familiar. I had no idea it was written by him too. Those are amazing songs!"

"You needn't just say that because his brother's here." Dean regarded, with a smirk, as they stepped out of the lift, and Dean led the way to the second apartment. Outside the wood door, was his name written in lime-house casual. Castiel waited patiently behind Dean, as he fitted the key in the lock and turned it twice.

"My humble abode." Dean swept an arm in the entrance, dramatically as he walked in; Castiel on his heel. Realizing instantly that that was stupid, he rushed in, proceeding to hang the keys on the Captain America key-hanger. He turned to see that Castiel was still stuck in the doorway.

Dean followed Castiel's eyes. Come to think of it, he was pretty proud of his place. It was kind of a big place for a single guy, and the lack of furniture made it seem even larger. When he'd bought it, all he'd bought with it was the bed, couch, TV, and things of import for the kitchen. The glass centerpiece and bureau were gifts on his 25th birthday - "Silver anniversary of being alive, Dean!" - from Sammy and Bobby, and the others had added up the littler things which had made it home. The couch pillows which he'd been against in the start - "too freaking' Disney!" - were now indispensable, and all of the framed photos from his performances, vinyl records and the glass cabinet which showcased Dean's important awards, gave it the look of a musician's apartment.

A guitar which he rarely ever played had been hung up securely and the one he did play was in its case in a farther corner of the room. The walls were beige and blue, alternatively. When he'd got his entire apartment redecorated in '15, following Mis-Address, he'd gotten the newest wall-arts. There was a charcoal black music-notes art spread throughout the house, and the large circular dining table - albeit, rarely used - gave the place an aesthetic Dean didn't know how to name. He hoped Castiel would like his apartment too.

"It's been too long since I was in someone's home." Castiel said, finally looking at Dean, after his eyes finished touring the place. "I've forgotten etiquette. It's a great place, Dean, and it has a very artistic touch to it."

"You can skip the 'etiquette', nerd." Dean grinned, pleased nonetheless. "And just find yourself a place to sit." Castiel sat down on one of the couches, as if he'd learn to sit from one of the Victorian Era portraits. Dean rolled his eyes.

"I really appreciate you inviting me here." Castiel added.

"I told you to skip the behavi-"

"No, I really mean it." Castiel's eyes were sincere, and Dean found himself unable to look anywhere else. Ridiculously blue. "You have been very good to me. You were, by no means, obligated to have me over, but you chose to do so, just because I sought your company. Thank you."

"'Tis fine," Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "It's just a normal thing. You're welcome to drop by."

Castiel offered Dean a little smile.

Dean realized something stupid. All of this craziness about Castiel coming over, and Dean had kinda - only, kinda - cleaned up his apartment and himself a little. But he'd not paid heed to the question which was hanging over their heads.

What were they even going to do?

"What do you usually do in the mornings?" Castiel asked, gingerly almost; comfortably pulling Dean out of his reverie. So, he wasn't the only person thinking about it. "When you don't have people inviting themselves over, that is."

"Stop that." Dean grinned. "And, I guess I eat, go to the studio?" He raised his eyebrows. "Cas, have you had breakfast?"

"That's not im-"

"-I'll get you breakfast." Dean stood up, almost relieved of having something to do, except stare back at Castiel's admittedly pretty face, for too long - borderline creepy. "Any specific requests?"

Castiel looked back at him, quizzically. "You're going to make it yourself?"

Dean nodded. "Who else? So, listen, you don't get to name Russian stuff I probably wouldn't know to spell." Castiel laughs, and Dean follows - because Castiel would not do something like that. But he continues. "Like kielbasa, you know? Which I know exists and is eaten, only because it was the only dialogue in a porno a friend of mine starred in."

Castiel smiled broader. "Kielbasa is Polish, and not to be judgmental in the least, but you're friends with porn-stars-"

"He's not a porn-'star'. It'd just been his fetish, forever." Dean loved how Castiel didn't sound repulsed, merely amused. "We just got his dream realized before he crossed the threshold into middle-age. And begun to get ugly. His words."

Castiel laughed.

"Practically non-existent boundaries there." Dean shrugged, extracting more laughter from Castiel. "So, back to breakfast?"

"Anything's fine."

"Something traditional, maybe?" Dean pursed his lips, leaning on the door-frame. "Pancakes? Waffles? Egg in the hole?"

"You forget that I was in Europe before, not Pluto. Those things exist everywhere on Earth. I've had waffles in Belgium, for that matter." Castiel teased, with a bit of a smirk, and Dean couldn't help but stare.

"Well, do you have American cereal there?" Castiel followed Dean to the kitchen, as Dean picked out two blue bowls, and searched for a carton of milk in the fridge.

What was Dean doing? Was he going to feed Castiel stupid cereal?

He found the carton.

Looks like he was.

That's it. Dean had no idea who was controlling his words, now. And this Dean was officially no longer smooth with guys. He takes that adjective back from himself. He doesn't deserve it after insisting on feeding the most good-looking guy he's ever had in his apartment, cereal.

"You win. I don't think I've ever had Captain cereal before."

"It's Cap'n." Dean replied, cheerfully. "Cap'n Crunch."

"Aye, aye."

Dean poured the cereal into the first bowl. "What do you usually do in the mornings?"

"It depends." Castiel smiled. "Sometimes, I have to work early. Sometimes, I take a morning walk, to clear my head. I go to the gym maybe, or as I've been doing ever since I'm in America, I watch the television."

"I'm not going to be responsible for breaking this wonderful tradition in making. We can watch television." Dean grinned, "You mentioned you liked The Avengers, right?"

Castiel nodded, "Of course."

"Ha! I have Age of Ultron!"

"That's the second movie, right?" Castiel's eyes shone.

"I have pretty much all the important movies of Marvel." Dean informed, proudly, as he carries both the bowls into the living room. Castiel once again follows him back, and reclaims his position on the couch. "But I've always advocated that the singular movies should be watched before the big-deal ones, like Age of Ultron and Infinity War. So, where would you like to begin?"

"The First Avenger." Castiel looked proud of himself, for remembering the title. It was adorable.

No, it was casually nice-to-look-at.

Better.

"Captain America's your favorite, huh?" Castiel nodded. "I get it. 'You get hurt - hurt 'em back. You get killed; walk it off'. That voice, am I right?" Dean does his best impression of Steve Rogers. He's kinda proud of it.

Castiel nods again. "You are right. He looks great, too. My type of guy." Dean tries very hard not to overthink into that little comment. Tall and blond. He kind of fits. "Well, you have a lot of CD's, Dean."

"What can I say, I watch a lot of television." Dean replied. "You know, only the other day, me and Victor were watching Battleship, and-"

"How?"

"With our eyes, unless there is another sensory organ of vision I don't know about?"

"No - wasn't Battleship supposed to be a game?"

"It's a movie too." Dean laughed. "Good thing you asked, man. I wouldn't want you sitting around with an image of me and him staring at the blue and red naval bases, and waiting for magic to happen."

"Don't make me sound stupid." But his voice had a note of humor, a mile long.

Dean finally found what he was looking for. "So, you've played Battleship before?"

"Strangely, no." Castiel replied, and Dean could hear the little frown which must be dangling from the man's lips. "Have you?"

"Is Bucky Barnes gay for Steve Rogers?"

"What?"

"That meant, 'yes'." Dean sighed.

"I don't get it."

"After this movie, you're going to." Dean beamed; it'd been awhile since he buckled in for an Avengers classic. It would be fun. "James Buchanan Barnes, a. k. a. The Winter Soldier is Rogers' childhood friend, and the Captain's sidekick later."

"And it's implied that he has a crush on the Captain?" Castiel sounded serious.

"It's all but spoken outright." Dean explained. "In the film, you'll see that they're just friends. But the entire World ships them. They're kind of, meant to be, if you know what I mean."

Castiel nodded. "I get it. He's in apparent denial of his feelings. But they show on the screen, nonetheless. Do you ship them too?"

"I just know of it. I don't write fan-fiction or draw them cuddling - you know, like fan-art - or things like that. I don't have the skills for either, but I'm not going to deny the truth on the screen in front of me." Dean added, wondering how they'd begun to converse of this.

"What about the Captain? Does he like him back?"

"I'm not going to spoil this for you." Dean declared, pushing Castiel's cereal bowl towards him. "And don't look at me like that, because I will totally give in, and then you'll only have yourself to blame when you're not able to think of anything else in the entire movie." Castiel fucking pouts, and Dean stares without meaning to, for a minute. Why was this guy he was trying to be a friend to, being so fucking cute?

"Try and forget all that I told you about Bucky. It'll be more fun that way." Dean whispered, making amends, after he's played, and the Marvel Logo is on the screen. Castiel gets up from where he'd been sitting, and calmly walks up to instead sit next to Dean on the two-person couch, wordlessly, their knees touching. Dean is stumped for a minute. "What happened?"

"I'll be able to hear what you're saying when you whisper now. You know, you tend to do that, at times." Castiel informs Dean, and all of the sudden, the flustered overflowing-good-manners Castiel is gone, and a cool and collected - and also, kind of cocky, as if he knows what he's doing to Dean - Cas takes his place. "If you mind, I can return to where I was, Dean. But you have to promise to speak louder."

"Shut up, stay put and watch the movie."

"Of course."

"And listen. We'll play Battleship later." Dean doesn't even know why he says that. It's as though Castiel sitting next to him and staring at his face for all it's worth, is doing things to him. "I can teach you."

"Thank you, Dean." Dean couldn't have mistaken the little smirk on Castiel's face. "The cereal is nice."

"What the hell." Dean muttered, very softly to himself. Because Castiel was dumbfounding him.

But he sits quietly, and tries not to think of how he fed a prospective-friend Cap'n Crunch for breakfast, as if he were fourteen and not twenty nine, and how Castiel accepted it without a word and is as into it as if it were popcorn he were eating in a theater. He also tries not to think of how heavenly Castiel looks in his blue jersey, and how the scarf which had stayed in place somehow was now draped over Dean's armrest - God Knows When that happened. And, he definitely tries not to think of how he was probably developing an infatuation with the unfairly good-looking guy who only wanted to be friends - to the extent that he almost jumps the first time Cas leans across him to take the remote.

Close to the end, Castiel paused the movie abruptly, and whispered to him. "I'm starting to see what you meant. But maybe Captain has a crush on The Winter Soldier, and not the other way 'round."

"Maybe." Dean says, and is replied with a modest smile. Crinkling eyes. What a perfect smile. The guy could make a model. It was unfair that Dean could only be friends with him. A favor for Crowley, as Sam had intelligently put. But that didn't pause the scenarios cooking up in his mind.

Dean tried to remember where exactly he'd kept Battleship, from the last time he'd played it when Jo, Ashley and Ellen had visited from Nebraska. That helped to stop him from glancing over at Castiel, inadvertently.

Dean tried to keep a straight face, and his eyes on the TV through it all.

It would be fucking Mayday if this guy could read minds.

And, he'd been worried about what they'd do.

***

On not finding Battleship - Dean was sure that Jo had smuggled it away, because he'd looked for it everywhere in vain - before Castiel had suggested playing cards. So now, Dean and Castiel sat cross-legged on the floor, because the couch wasn't wide enough for them to sit in that position. Castiel looked like he was concentrating hard on his thirteen cards, peering over them, with squinting eyes and his lower lip protruded mutinously. Dean had started the game with a very good deal, but he was beginning to get annoyed, right about now.

"I just need this one card to win." Dean muttered irritatedly, drawing a card again and putting it on the pile with a glare, as it was not what he was looking for. "You know, Cas? One card!"

"Why don't you try another combination?" Castiel suggested, proceeding to draw, and take the card with a satisfied little smile. "There's no knowing when you'll get the card you want. It could be a very long time."

"That's unlikely." Dean raised his eyebrows. "Not to boast, I've always had good luck at card games." But he inspected his cards, once more.

"Rummy, unlike a lot of other games like poker, depends little on luck."

"Shut up. I'm going to win."

"Sure," Castiel said lightly, even daring to smile when Dean repeated the exercise, and slammed the card he'd drawn on the top of the pile.

"Why do you look so smug?" Dean frowned, getting annoyed, because every card Castiel picked was somehow the exact one he looked like he needed. "You're about to win, aren't you?" Dean suspected, knitting his eyebrows together.

"I'm certainly trying to. But, alas." Castiel looked up at Dean through his eyelashes. "You've already asserted that you're going to win."

"You're enjoying my distress. You're totally enjoying this." Dean glared, as the third card in a row he drew, turned out to be useless for him. "It's not fair. Stop enjoying this."

"I'd apologize and stop if you wish, but you make it difficult, Dean."

"Bastard." Dean muttered, and Castiel only smiled, unaffected. Dean resolved for a fraction of a second, to change his combination. But what if the moment he let go of one card, he found the one he'd been looking for!? Then, he'd look like a complete fool. He wasn't ready to let go of his perfect hand.

"Dean. If looks could kill," Castiel suddenly spoke. "Your cards would all be dead, by now."

"More importantly, so would yours." Dean shrugged.

"Why would you want to commit the murders of my innocent cards?" Castiel raised both of his eyebrows jestingly.

"Because, Cas, if looks could kill, I'd already be a serial killer and on the run, and then thirteen more wouldn't matter."

"Why do you think I got a good hand, anyways?"

"You've been smiling the whole while."

"What tells you that I've got even one series set up yet?"

"Well, you've been smiling the whole while." Dean repeated, his interest piqued, because Castiel looked like he was about to solve a mystery. "Why? Am I wrong?" He was hopeful. "Say, Cas! Are you in a worse position than me? Am I wrong?"

Castiel sighed.

For a moment, they both were silent.

"No, not really." Castiel broke the silent, the straight face giving way to a glorious smirk. Stretching across his lips, and the glint in his eyes which made the blue of his irises take up a darker shade. "I win."

Dean threw his head back, cursed with passion, and then proceeded to laugh resignedly, as Castiel displayed his cards to Dean. Three triplets, and one series. Fucking perfect.

Dean turned his eyes to Castiel's cards, once more, just out of curiosity. The extreme one on the right. "I don't want to play Rummy with you. Ever again." Dean rolled his eyes, getting up. "You had the card I was looking for! The very card with which I could've won four draws back!"

"Good for you, Dean. And what were you looking for? The Ace of Diamonds?" Castiel toyed with his cards, his fingers dancing over the edges and managing to look extremely artistic doing so. "Maybe, the Queen of Clubs?"

Dean swallowed. "You nerd, you mean the c-"

"Yes, Dean. I do mean it as the double-entendre, you think I mean it as. A innuendous wordplay, if you will. Since, if I remember, you struggle with subtlety." He added, with such a casual smile, that it would be completely unnoticeable that he's teasing Dean. He loved this side of this guy.

"You have this habit of carrying forward jokes long after they're supposed to be forgotten." Dean muttered, defensively.

"I've thought you liked that."

Dean snorted, and sat back down on the couch. Castiel followed him a moment later, picking up his beer bottle, and taking a sip as he does. He'd had no hesitation in agreeing to the beverage when Dean offered, even though Dean had snidely mentioned that he wouldn't be drinking. Maybe some of the sudden openness was because of the alcohol in his system. A thought crossed Dean's mind - what would he be like drunk?

There was silence for awhile. Dean sighed.

"I was looking for the King of Hearts."

Castiel fucking chokes, and ends up almost sprawling on Dean's couch, slipping halfway to the ground, in shaking with laughter.

Dean's trying not to stare too directly at Castiel still trying to contain his laughter, by massaging his forehead with the hand which wasn't holding the beer, and helplessly unable to stop.

"Bastard." He muttered, as a last resort, tearing his eyes away from Castiel Novak.

***

Dean has no idea when the clock strikes twelve.


	3. "To be more obvious than that, he'd have to pay a compliment directly to your dick."

Dean piled up all the Sorry cards tediously - Cas would want to play it again sometime, he'd said - and folded the board into the box. And stashed it away somewhere he could find it later.

He didn't even remember the last time he'd played Sorry.

But then, there were a lot of things he didn't remember doing the last time, which he'd been doing, in the past week with Cas. They'd played fucking 'Two Truths and a Lie', for God's sake. Cas had ended that on a mysterious note, by making a point not to tell Dean which was the lie. Though meeting Kate Winslet, and having been on a poster, both seemed like lies.

It had got to be one of them, because Cas had to have eaten deep-fried butter at least once.

The first day, they'd watched Marvel and sucked at Rummy, and so it'd begun. And Dean didn't want it to stop any time soon.

It had ceased to be weird, somewhere in the middle; two men in their late 20's, meeting every morning to watch superhero movies and do things together - not like a play-date, because _WHAT!?_ \- before they respectively left for the rest of their working schedules.

It was exactly as if they were friends - in freshman year, though.

Which Dean knew, they were - except for the freshman part - and he'd contented himself with the thought. Except for the occasional flirtation when Castiel had a few beers in him, and sometimes the awkward staring matches - most of them, courtesy of Dean - they'd done nothing progressive. It was too simple to be true, but there was nothing more to be said. And it was pretty awesome. Dean had gotten quite used to it.

So now, sixth day from the time when Castiel had disturbed Dean's sleep and declared that he missed human contact, they were at Dean's apartment once more. Castiel was gone to take a leak and Dean was clearing the floor off of Sorry, when Dean's phone rang.

Dean lazily picked it up, and held it to his ear, speaking in a contemplative voice. He internally prayed for it to be not be media. They were the worst part of Dean's life. "Dean Winchester."

"Where do you think you are?" Came a familiar voice, pricked with irritation. It was his brother.

"Good morning to you too, Sam. " Dean grinned cheekily, imagining Sam's face at his not-very-original joke.

"The semifinals, Dean. You better be parking your car in my driveway this instant." Sam declared, his voice softening a bit.

Dean instantly realized that it was twelve thirty, already. He'd lost track of time. Wasn't it the second semifinals today? The second semifinal - fuck. He'd forgotten all about it. Instantly, guilt washed over him. They were supposed to watch the highlights together, since they'd missed the quarterfinals, because of Sam's sudden trip to Canada. And now, playing Sorry, watching Thor, and simply being with Cas had made him overlook all of it.

"Look-" he began, apologetically.

A different voice cuts him off. "Are you at least parking your ass in the driver's seat right now?" It's Gabriel.

"Not exactly." Dean tried to deflect. "By the way, how lame is the two of you calling me on speaker-phone together?"

"I'm here too." Balthazar provided, in a chilling tone. "The silent treatment has always proven effective with you."

"A threesome - that's a lot less lame. Sure." Dean rolled his eyes. "Look, I'll be there in a while. I'm really sorry that I forgot. I - I'll join you in a while."

"This game decides if France plays Croatia or England in the finals on Sunday!" Balthazar nearly yells, and Dean has to hold the phone away from his ear, because the idiot has no sense of how to use mobiles. "You better be here, Dean, or you don't get an invite to the final-viewing party on Sunday. And believe me, I'll hold you to it."

"Okay, I don't respond to threats well." Dean squinted, and instantly felt bad about being a dick - because they usually took Sports seriously. Like it was supposed to be taken. And the fact that France had made it to the finals had Balthazar on the end of his nerves. But here Dean had been - without a care in the world - playing Sorry with his devastatingly handsome friend. "Hey, I'll be there. Soon."

"Ten minutes." It's Sam again, and he sounded serious. "You have a margin of ten minutes."

"His apartment's three minutes away!" Balthazar argued, at Sam.

"But he's got to look twice before crossing the roads, Balthazar!" Gabriel whined in a pretentious tone - a voice that was supposed to be Sam's, but was far from it. Gabriel sounded like a teenager whatever he tried to do with his voice. It was a wonderful thing to make fun of.

"No, he doesn't! He's the one driving, asshat!" Balthazar yelled directly into the receiver. Dean winced. Then there were muffled sounds as if someone had placed their hand over the receiver, and as if there was discussion regarding how long he should be allowed. Generous of them, of course. Finally, Balthazar spoke again. "You get five minutes."

"I might need a little more than that." Dean muttered, as Castiel reentered the room, looking at Dean curiously, as he sat back down on the sofa. He jutted out his chin with a confused look, to ask who Dean was on the phone with, and Dean took the phone down, and answered, "Sam and the others." Castiel nodded.

"Dean. What are you even up to?" Sam asked, tentatively, once he had resumed his stance. "Who are you talking to?"

"Uh, I have a friend over."

"I thought we were your friends! He's cheating on us too!" Balthazar shrieked. Dean huffed, as he had to take the phone away from his ear, yet again.

"How is she better than the rest of us, Dean-o? Does she at least come with benefits?" Gabriel prompted, and then proceeded to cackle at his own joke. Dean would've rolled his eyes, if he suddenly hadn't forgotten how. Castiel was looking at him with searching blue eyes - possibly thinking of the other side of the conversation - and Dean was fidgeting under his gaze. What if he overheard it? He pushed the phone more firmly against his ear.

"Shut up, dumbass."

"Dean, look, I can't exactly tell you to ditch her, but-"

Sam was cut off by Balthazar. "That's the spirit. Ditch her."

Dean rolled his eyes, once more. He noticed the pronoun they used - they were all open-minded about all of it, but tended to forget Dean's relatively newfound bisexuality. Castiel continued to stare at him, bemusedly, as if wondering why Dean reacted in such a way. The guy merely looking at him was distracting. "Shut up, smartass." He offered, alternatively. He sees Castiel smile.

"Well, just bring her!" Sam suddenly declared. "I mean, your friend'd be interested in soccer, right?"

Dean's eyes widen, as he realizes the genius of that plan. "Probably. Wait," Dean looked pointedly at Cas. "FIFA World Cup - England versus Croatia. Sam's apartment, but there's going to be the lot of my friends there. Interested?" He asked, tentatively.

"Would they like to have me over?" Castiel replied, relatively nonchalant.

"Yes, that's why I'm asking you." Dean deadpanned.

"And, would you like for me to join you?" Castiel raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, that's why I'm asking you." Dean repeated, biting his lip. He jostled his head up to look into Castiel's imperatively blue eyes as he spoke. "Would you like to join us?"

"It'd be my pleasure to."

"Keep talking like that, and someone's going to mistake you for Japanese royalty." Castiel quirked an eyebrow at 'Japanese'. Dean sighed. "You know, world's politest country? You know, with the bowing and apologizing. All of that stuff!" Castiel looked like he was still unsure. "Omotenashi?" He tried, on end.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "Omotenashi?"

"I swear I'm not making it up!" Dean defended. "Omotenashi means hospitality, and I know because I was once conducting research on this thing for Kevin, and not because I'm some geek! Which I'm not!" Dean hurried to add, which was completely unnecessary. He bit his lip, because Castiel looked like he was reining in laughter.

"Okay. Got it." Castiel readjusted the smile on his lips. "You're on the phone, Dean. Talk to them."

Dean cursed loudly at the plain absence of emotion in his deadpan - The sense of humor was strong with him. "He's in."

"It's a 'he'?" Gabriel began, but Balthazar spoke over him.

"Fine. Both you and him, here in five. And I mean it when I say that if the match starts before you're here, you're not just uninvited to the finals on Sunday, but you're also locked out forever-"

"-you're being a dramatic jackass-"

"-And no pie for you."

"You're bluffing. You don't have pie."

"Oh, trust me, there is pie."

"Son of a bitch." Dean glared at the ceiling. The bastard would surely have a daring smile all over his face - knowing that he'd hit Dean's Achilles heel.

"See you soon, Friendly McFriendlison." Balthazar whistled. Dean didn't even know why he hung out with such obnoxious people - he should've known better seven years back. But the damage was done - and he'd have to pay for it the rest of his life.

"Drive safe, brother." That was Gabriel, again trying the low-pitched baritone, to sound like Sam. Dean rolled his eyes, because that was not how Sam and he talked to each other. Sam definitely didn't call him 'brother' at the end of every dialogue, nor did they say things like that. They were not sissies like that. Okay, Sam might be - but he wasn't.

"'Kay, Dean." Sam acknowledged like the few-worded great man that he is, before hanging up. Dean looked at Castiel, and stood up from his cross-legged position on the floor, straightening out his Henley, and faltering because Castiel had stood up following him too, and now was merely inches from Dean. Dean's eyes flitted to the latter's lips without warning or comprehension, and he strained to look back into Castiel's eyes, and stop thinking about things.

Dean was definitely going to have to see a doctor about his obvious illnesses concerning being in proximity with Cas and losing control of his own eyes.

"Let's talk on the way?" Castiel nodded, willingly. "We have got to rush. Got to be there in five," Dean informed Castiel. "Or apparently, there's no pie for me."

"The world's aware of your weakness?" Castiel and Dean had been having a conversation about desserts a couple days back - Dean had no idea why or how - and Dean's obsession with pie had come up. Though he wouldn't call it that - he wasn't obsessed; he just loved it more than he loved Balthazar and Gabriel combined, most of the time. Wasn't his fault that there was so much else in his life so un-lovable, though.

"These guys aren't my world." Dean sarcastically remarked, as he handed Castiel his trench-coat, and begun to put on his own jacket. It's been raining again, but Castiel's monsoon ensemble has gotten replaced by a blue button-down, and his beige trench-coat from the time in the studio. "Don't make me sound weird, Cas."

Castiel shrugged. "You know what I meant." Dean took the keys off of Captain America's shield and the both of them walked out of his apartment. "May I point something out, Dean?"

Dean hummed his assertion.

"You realize you swear a lot, don't you?" Dean lifted his head to see if Castiel was kidding, but was sort of unsurprised to see that he was not. Of course that's what he'd like to point out. But then, reeling back, he had pretty much sworn in every one of his responses during the call. Still - it was not the sort of thing to call a guy out on, out of the blue. Funnily enough, once again, Castiel didn't look any kind of offended or judgmental - merely curious. Dean decided to play along.

"I have no fucking idea what you're talking about." He winked, and Castiel let out a chuckle.

"I was way out of place saying so then, I see." Castiel looked sympathetic, in his sarcasm, and the two of them step into the elevator. They both reach out for the lobby button at the same time, but Castiel ends up pressing it, because he's closer to it, and Dean's a gentleman.

"Look, it's basically them. Those guys are a bunch of morons." Dean added jokingly, because he wants to make Castiel smile again. He succeeds. "Some people just invoke that side of me. But, I don't do so in front of everybody else. For example, I don't cuss that much around you. Keep my shit down. Right?"

"Yes, you're positively priestly." Castiel nodded, mockingly.

"But that can be traced back to you, though." Dean raised an eyebrow; seeing an opportunity and seizing it. "I swear, I feel like I'm in an expletive-free zone, when I'm talking to you."

"That's not true." Castiel frowned, almost immediately. "I might not hurl obscenities at situations in general, but you make me sound like-" He seemed to be thinking about it.

"Like a boy scout?" Dean offered the first thing that came to his mind.

"Like a boy scout." Castiel agreed. "You make me sound like a boy scout."

"But that's a compliment, right? You never swear, and you're always prepared." Dean added in a singsong voice. "Sounds like a fitting compliment to me, sir."

Castiel's frown receded at Dean's cheeky grin, and his lips began to curl up at the corners. "You're annoying, Dean." They reached the lobby with a ping, and walked towards the garage. They'd gone out only once in Dean's car; when they'd gone to a cafe for breakfast.

Dean smirked.

Castiel pursed his lips. "Or better, you stand corrected," He declared, walking ahead, and turning to face Dean levelly. Dean's breath hitches without meaning to, and he has to stop before he crashes into the sudden obstacle, in his path. "You're being a son of a bitch, Dean."

No.

No, that was not something to be turned on by.

No, _dammit,_ it was not.

Dean shuffled on his feet, shifting his weight, and unknowingly glancing down at Castiel's lips. He sounds so goddamn sexy swearing, that Dean should be more of an asshole to be called by that name. There's just something about Castiel, with his fucking blue eyes and that hint of a smirk, and the obstinate jutting out of the chin, and the gravelly come-hither voice, and the way he looks at Dean, and - Fuck. Dean feels a wave of heat go through him, as Castiel's expression softens into a mild smile.

"That's your favorite swear-phrase, is it not?" Castiel added cooly, breaking the silence and stepping out of Dean's path. "You use it an awful lot."

Dean doesn't reply to that. Because he's still trying to recompose himself.

"You're not allowed to swear." Dean announced, as they sit in the car. "I take it back. You're not a Boy Scout; you're a goddamn badass. But you don't get to swear like that."

"Why?" Castiel perked, innocently.

"Because you have the fucking stare, and the fucking voice." Dean said, before he could filter it through his head. "So leave something for the rest of us."

"Now, that's a compliment." Castiel spoke distinctly, and for a beat, silence ensues.

Dean turns the key in the lock, and tries very hard to put the whole episode past him. Try to think of what follows. England versus Croatia. Pies, probably. And Castiel meeting his friends. Castiel meeting his friends. Yeah, that.

"Dean, are you worrying about something?" Castiel broke the reverie, when Dean keeps the engine on, but doesn't move his foot off the brake for a long, silent moment. Dean whipped his head to look at him, a bit nervously.

"Nah." Because Dean's an excellent liar. "Are you?"

Castiel turned to look at Dean. "No. Are you in denial?"

"No. Are you?" Dean sighed, because Castiel was beginning to understand him way too thoroughly.

"I seldom am." Castiel commented. "Is something - Are you having second thoughts about me joining you, Dean?" His voice was hesitant. "Because I can return - and I won't mind at all, and-"

"No. I definitely want you to join us. I do." He blinked, and cut him off. Why would Castiel even jump to that conclusion? Dean loved being with him. It was never not interesting. "But you won't be weirded out or anything, right?"

"But I said yes, didn't I?" Castiel was frowning, now. Probably thinking of Dean as weird. Which he'd earned for himself, definitely.

"I mean, you didn't just say yes because you had to, right?"

"What do you mean 'I had to'?"

"I was on the phone with the people in question, and not saying yes would be rude, and you're a sucker for etiquette." Dean put, none too eloquently, but heaved a breath right after. Off his chest. "You do want to come, right?"

"I don't even understand why you're saying these things." Castiel's voice was sincere. "Of course I do, if that isn't going to be a problem for you. I haven't been following the World Cup this year, but it's football - soccer, sorry. And, they're your friends, Dean. Of course I do."

"Okay." Dean gripped the steering wheel, and changed gears to reverse. He could feel himself lightening up already. "Okay, Cas. You always know the best thing to say."

"Not really." Castiel leaned in his seat. "The best thing would be to crack a joke about Omotenashi right about now, but I can't seem to come up with one."

"At least you tried." Dean laughed, and drove out of the compound. But, he was feeling strangely about the whole episode. Less nervous, more excited.

And his brain was making matters worse, of course. It always did. This was a minor thing just simply Dean taking a friend to his brother's place where more of his friends were.

But in some twisted up scenario in his head, he was introducing someone that needed approval, from his family.

***

Upon arriving at Sam's apartment, Dean was a nervous wreck - in spite of what he'd prayed. Thankfully he was able to keep his cool for majority of the three minute ride, an achievement that he prided in himself for.

Castiel glanced at Dean, frowning a little at the expression on his face. "Are you alright, Dean? You don't look so well."

"You think I'm ugly?" Dean shot back, almost instinctively, proceeding to laugh at how quickly Castiel's eyes widened defensively. He played that off pretty well. If only he'd be that lucky for the rest of the day.

"No - No, it's just that - you look nervous?"

"Well, why would I be nervous?" He said shrugging exaggeratedly at Castiel, who blinked and stopped his questioning. Dean sighed. His mind screamed bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. It was true, Dean was nervous, but he was with Cas. And his presence calmed Dean down a bit, he had grown accustomed to the ungodly blue eyes and the serious voice.

It almost scared Dean, how quickly he'd grown used to Cas.

Dean didn't know if Cas would stay - Hell, he didn't know if Castiel would ever be a real part of his life. But his mind had already fit Castiel into the unbelievable puzzle known as Dean's life. Way too easily at that. Way too soon.

Knocking on Sam's apartment door, Dean heard his friends before he saw them. All of them undoubtedly, screaming at the television, and yelling at each other. Like the mature grown-ups they are, of course.

Dean found himself smiling at the thought of Castiel sitting among his friends, confused as to why such raw passion is shown for a simple sport. Castiel on his best behavior - Castiel being a formal little shit like he was on the first day; Castiel screaming alongside the rest of them when in the last few minutes. Shit, he was starting to think about him a whole fucking lot.

Yeah, Castiel was pretty much going to stay.

An irritated "Come in", was yelled, and Dean mockingly curtsied, as he swung open the door, while Castiel smiled bemusedly.

Sam's apartment was hands-down better than his. And the admiration was clear on Castiel's face as he followed Dean in. Dean tried to stop himself from going back in time and comparing this look to the one from before where he stepped into Dean's apartment for the first time. And failed.

Dean also saw that a lot of people are missing - Victor, Garth, Kevin. How is it that he was the only one receiving no-pie threats for it, then?

"Hey, Dean." Greeted Benny, who sat closest to the door. His lucky corner seat. Dean grinned at him, beginning to take off his jacket. "Hey." Benny added, with a nod of his head at Castiel before turning back to the screen.

"I'm Castiel Novak." He introduced, looking prepared to formally shake hands almost. Dean had to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

"Benjamin Lafitte. And don't you ever call me by my whole name." Benny shrugged, and Dean wondered how it was possible for anyone to be so at-ease on meeting a guy who looked like Castiel, for the very first time. The first few days had almost been a blow to his self-esteem - the way a single look had Dean pinned down instantly. Even now, in the middle of jokes, or during movies, Dean got dumbstruck on Castiel's very handsome face. It was almost a miracle that the latter hadn't discovered Dean's infatuation.

"Hi!" Sam stood up from his place on the couch, and marched towards the two of them. "I'm Sam Winchester, Dean's brother. Please come in; get comfortable." Castiel smiled one of his best smiles at Sam before taking off his coat.

"I'll take that." Dean forwarded his hand to take the trench-coat, and Castiel handed it over with a familiar look of jest.

"Anything else you'd like to take?" He almost whispered, fixing Dean with a look, and sounding like a salesman at Gas N' Sip, in some perverted sense. But Dean's tongue was stuck in his throat, as he stared at Castiel dumbly.

Why could he not have made a lewd comment that grossed Castiel out to the point of moving away from Dean right now?

But then, timing's a bitch.

"Ciao, Dean-o!" Gabriel called out loud from where he seemed to be settled in the corner of the sofa, with pillows around him.

Dean cringed. "Why do you have to call me that?"

"It's important for my poetry to rhyme." Gabriel replied in such a solemn manner, that Dean rolls his eyes with feeling, since he's neither correct, nor legible. Castiel lets out a perfect sound of laughter. "Yeah, I'm funny and pretty. Rare nowadays, huh, blue-eyes?" Castiel raised an eyebrow. Dean should've warned Gabriel about Castiel's issues with calling him anything but his name.

"That doesn't really rhyme." Chuck pointed out.

"Poetic license!" Gabriel hissed at him.

"Poetic license doesn't let you declare un-rhyming words rhyming because you feel like it." Sam face-palmed, as Gabriel didn't seem to take offense in the very least. "Well, then serious-awesomeness-license." He cajoled, before turning back to Cas. "Come on, sit with me, newbie." Gabriel patted the spot next to him, like at a kid on the first day of school. Dean could practically hear Castiel rolling his eyes, as he went to do so.

"That's my seat." Balthazar entered the living room as Castiel sat down, grumbling and not even looking at him, with two beers in his hands, which he put on the table on the glass dining table and proceeded to open. "Hello, stranger."

"Actually, I'm Casti-"

"He's talking to me." Dean nudged Castiel, who silenced immediately.

"I said hello, stranger." Balthazar repeated, still not facing him.

"Hello, Balthazar." Dean sighed, gesturing for Castiel to sit down, as he walked towards the guy working on his beers with concentration, to measure out his anger. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Castiel sit next to Charles, and exchange greetings. He's probably the safest one to talk to in the group, so Dean's relieved. "It did take me only five minutes, didn't it?"

"England versus Croatia, you bastard." Balthazar leveled him with a contemptuous look. "Second fucking semi-final. And you were busy being friends. What does that even mean?"

"I'm sorry?" Dean proposed, taking one of the beers Balthazar has opened.

"Yeah, I haven't made up my mind regarding forgiveness yet." Balthazar grinned suddenly, and Dean heaves a breath of relief. "I thought you don't drink?"

"It's not for me." And the both of them walk across the dining space, to where the rest of the guys sit. Sam seems to be trying to get Gabriel off of his beer, and Castiel and Chuck are still talking. Benny's the only one watching the highlights of the previous match which are being replayed, before the semifinals start.

"Dean," Balthazar hissed at him, stopping him mid-track. Dean has to lean towards him to catch the rest of his words. "For the first time in my life, I wish I weren't so emotionally attached to alcohol."

"Huh?" Dean frowned.

"Yeah, then I'd be able to drop this beer and not cry about it later, because your new friend is certainly drop-beer gorgeous." Balthazar spoke so quietly that Dean's the only one who hears him. His stomach churned - perhaps it'd been better for his friends to overlook Castiel's looks, like Benny had. Balthazar was so going to embarrass him. And, he didn't exactly feel too delightful about what he was sure Balthazar was about to do.

"Drop-dead."

"You're fucking forgiven." Balthazar has made his way towards Castiel on the couch with an almost predatory look on his face. Though Dean's aware that it's his game-face. "Hey! I'm Balthazar Milton, bass player for Charlie's Choir! You know, like the Angels! Although, it seems that you're the angel, with those angel eyes!" He ended up quoting Elvis Presley's Angels, actually managing to make Castiel's eyes widen in astonishment when he recognized it. Dean had to put in an effort to not scowl at the way Castiel was smiling at Balthazar - though most of it was based on politeness, he could bet.

"That line died with Elvis in the 70's." Chuck broke in.

"'Round the time you were born, then?" Balthazar shot back, before turning to Castiel. "So, what do I call you?"

"Castiel Novak." Castiel didn't even look taken aback. But Dean guessed someone who looks like that must be used to something like this. Dean hands Castiel his beer, and sits down next to Sam, with a thump on his back. "And, thank you, Balthazar." The name for some reason made Castiel's accent more pronounced. Dean found himself captivated by the way it rounded up around the 'r'. But he shrugged out of it pretty soon, because Balthazar was downright flirting third-degree with Cas. He did not know how to treat a mutual friend. How to treat Dean's friend. The completely unreliable bastard. "But I'm pretty sure my origins can be traced back to Russia, not Paradise."

"Ah, Russia! It's close to a paradise, isn't it?"

"Save for the communism and the winters and Putin." Dean muttered to Sam, who nudges him in response, with a glare, as if to stop Dean from dissing Cas' native country. Dean rolls his eyes in return. He knows Castiel has no lasting affection for Russia.

"I'm from France, originally!" Balthazar went on, ignoring Dean's input, and even Benny turned to take a look at the scene. "What a flattering coincidence! Both us French and Russians sure love our beverages!" He smirked, and clinked Castiel's beer with his, as though they were wine glasses. Castiel smiled a little broader, and took a sip.

Dean could've gagged at the look Balthazar was shooting at Cas.

Instead, he felt a heat rise up to his cheeks. Because Balthazar was not supposed to be flirting with Cas.

In some weird way, Dean's brain had reasoned, if Cas was only going to be friends with Dean - as they had mutually decided, of course - he only got to be friends with the others too. He couldn't exactly be flirting with people like Balthazar when he was only friends with Dean. Because Dean was good at flirting too. So, if Cas was looking to flirt, Dean should've been an option too. But since it was clear that he wasn't - again, a mutually made decision - the others shouldn't be either.

That made absolutely no sense.

But then, nor did the fact that Dean was turning red in the face because Castiel was now grinning at Balthazar, and looking up at him through his lashes like something that was messed up.

Dammit.

"Jesus, Balthazar! You're an insult to 18th century cougars, whose methods you employ in your wooing!" Gabriel interrupted from the side, causing Balthazar to hurl a string of insults at him, his attention completely drawn away from Castiel. There's a God in heaven.

This gave Dean a chance to glance at Castiel yet again, who looked very interested in the bickering of the two cousins, and very lively indeed. There was a smile on his face when he saw Dean looking at him. As their eyes met, Castiel again barely whispered, with a grin, "I'm sorry; was that a flirtation?"

"To be more obvious than that, he'd have to pay a compliment directly to your dick."

"Noted." Castiel laughed, and Dean mirrored.

"Stop it, we have company." Chuck finally made Balthazar and Gabriel stop quarreling, at the end of which Gabriel was eating his chips with a sour face, and Balthazar was folding his hands in a gesture of grumpiness. "I'm sorry, but they're very vulgar." He added, to Castiel, who looked like he didn't mind at all.

"Where's Vic?" Dean queried. "And Kevin and Garth?" He turned to glare at Sam, Gabriel and Balthazar one after the other. "Or am I the only one who gets yelled at, for being late?"

"Victor's big unveiling of the album is Sunday." Sam explained. "And Kevin has been working overtime at MusicHuntsU together, because they're tied with Vic."

"And Garth?"

"He's got a date." Benny piped in, and Dean's eyes widen.

"You're kidding me!?"

"I wish he was. We even checked that she was not cat-fishing him or something." Balthazar asserted. "You know, like the last time when Gabe and I did it?"

Gabriel laughed. And then suddenly stopped, staring at Castiel. The latter shuffled in his place, because Gabriel looks almost creepy looking at him with such concentration. "Uh, what?" Castiel asked, hesitantly.

"I think I've seen you somewhere. It just hit me all at once." Gabriel said, slowly, his tone judging. Castiel's confused expression doesn't budge. "Have I seen you before?"

"I don't think so." Castiel replied.

"But I have!" Gabriel's voice rose up a pitch. "Think harder; we must've met?"

"Maybe you crossed roads? You might have come across him on social media?" Chuck offered.

"Hey." Gabriel's brow cleared. "I think that's right. I swiped right for you on Tinder."

"I'm not on Tinder." Castiel declared, looking offended by the insinuation.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed of, dear! Sometimes we're just not willing to wait for love to bump into us in the middle of the streets, and we go seeking it ourselves!" Gabriel began, preachily.

"Gabriel, stop annoying Cas." Dean stepped in, his eyes narrowed. "You haven't seen him anywhere." If he had, he sure would've had the memory of it! Dean sure couldn't meet a guy like that and forget about him! He didn't exactly have a common face. "You don't have that good a memory anyways. You're not exactly Sherlock Holmes."

"Or Doctor Watson." Sam inputted.

"Or a Hardy Brother, for that matter." Dean snickered.

"He's barely one of the Famous Five." Benny grinned, and everybody lightens at the image of that. "At least, not one of the good ones."

"I'm fine enough with being Dick." Gabriel grinned.

"Dick's too good for you. You're barely Timothy." Balthazar pointed a finger at him, with a smirk.

"The dog?"

"Yeah." Benny confirmed.

"Awesome. All I ever wanted." Gabriel declared, with a mile long smile.

"Come to think of it, Tim," Balthazar makes it sound like an endearment. "Cassie here might've borne a resemblance to the Mr. Right in your dreams, Gabe." Balthazar tried.

"You know what? That's just it." Gabriel smiled, silkily, and the matter is dropped. "Beware barely-my-brother, you might have competition in regards to Dean's pretty friend. And, I'm the more charming one, for sure."

"You guys do not know how to treat a guest," Sam informed them, before turning to Castiel. "You must be feeling out of waters, here, because we've kinda been talking among ourselves. I'll just tell you who's who." Oh, here we go. Sam taking things in his hands because Dean doesn't know how to be a friend.

"Yes, of course." Castiel smiled politely at Sam, who's now giving Cas his puppy-eyes apologetic look. Jesus, the two of them together could write a book on how not to offend someone ever, ever, ever.

"So, that's Benny." Sam pointed. "He sings. And likes soccer. Like Dean, sorta."

"And that's all there is to me." Benny mock-frowned, and Sam shook his head in a no-offense gesture.

"He's Chuck. Or Charles. And he's the guy responsible for Charlie's Angels." Sam proceeded.

"Though the youthful and vibrant face of Charlie's Angels is me, Gabriel Speight. I'll sign your autograph-book later if you wish." He added, with a toss of his head, which earned him a heap of profanities from around the room.

"And of course, this is Balthazar. He plays the guitar-"

"-which is but one of his many talents." Balthazar completed.

"He's also his own wing-man because all of the rest of us are too cool to wing anyone or need winging." Dean added, with a sweet look.

"Okay." Castiel breathed out, before taking a sip of his beer. "And, I'm just Castiel." Castiel seemed to shift a bit in his seat, because everyone was looking at him.

"But which of the Holy Trinity are you?" Gabriel asked.

"Yeah, what's your poison?" Balthazar added. "You don't strike me nearly as boring as the producer types, so do you write, sing, or play?"

"Or do all of them like Sam-bo." Gabriel interrupted.

"How could I forget? A part of our prologue is also that Gabriel is majorly fan-girling for Sam, and epically fails to hide his gigantic crush for our community heartthrob most of the time." Balthazar told Castiel, with a straight face.

"Hey! That's my little brother!" Dean protested, as Gabriel doesn't even pretend to be offended and defend himself, and straight goes to wink suggestively at Sam.

"Not little - I'm just younger!" Sam corrected.

"Some gratitude for saving your honor." Dean glared back at Sam, who rolls his eyes in return. "And don't worry, nobody thinks you're little."

"Yeah, nobody thinks you're little." Gabriel snickered, and Sam cringes because Gabriel can make everything sound cringe-worthy.

"Can we not?" Chuck said, quietly. "Castiel, you were saying?"

"I do write songs."

Dean glanced at Castiel, trying to hide his surprise. He'd completely forgotten to ask Castiel what he did. Then again, Dean and Castiel usually just talked - even if about the most random things. But the conversations happened themselves never having, awkward silences - only comfortable ones.

But now in his mind had suddenly gotten imprinted an image of lyricist Castiel. It was bad enough that his subconscious had befitted him in Jack Dawson's attire since the very first day, but now to add to it the charm of a travelling songwriter quite elevated him to the first tier of Dean's weird fantasies. Castiel with his little lined notebook, writing songs. Observing the World with magically blue eyes, and penning down the parts he liked best. Castiel, working odd jobs to sustain himself, moving from place to place to see more of the World, and never being seen without his thick diary and pretty-nibbed pens. Castiel, with a thoughtful look in his eyes and a dreamy smile on his lips, as he read out the song he'd written.

Castiel, as a songwriter.

Holy shit, Dean was imagining too much today.

He returned from his guilty wanderings, as his friends let out a chorus of 'Cool's, even while Balthazar claimed that he "knew it".

"Did you shift to America for your career?" Chuck asked, curiously.

"Yes." Castiel nodded. "This city is full of opportunities."

"Ah, good ol' New York. 'City so nice, they named it twice'." Gabriel said, in an exaggeratedly thoughtful tone. As though he were the tour guide of one of the cheap tour-of-the-city you can buy, that waste your Sunday afternoon and you never really see through to the end.

"What?" Castiel asked. The rest of them groaned. That question was all Gabriel needed to launch into the explanation of the title, and his favorite joke associated with it.

"You know, don't you? NYC is called New York, New York." Gabriel beamed. "My villa is called 'Coco Kennel' because Bow-oncé and Madogga, my dogs, insisted on it. I wanted to name my villa 'New York' too, so that the people in the post-office had a laugh over it. I'm all about a good time." Gabriel winked, with a spontaneous laugh. Everybody in the room laughed, because though it was stale, it was one of his best over-used jokes.

"He's not even messing with you." Dean confirmed, to a still recovering Castiel. "He really calls the poor puppies that."

"That's what you were laughing at?" Gabriel twirled around to face him. "I thought you were laughing at my New York joke. My dogs' names are nothing to be laughed at."

"Then you shouldn't have named them so." Sam laughed, turning to Castiel. "Trust me, though. Those two terriers are the cutest animals you'd ever see, Cas." Castiel seemed to want to hesitate, only momentarily, for the use of the nickname, but then seemed to brush it off. Dean considered it an accomplishment.

"Gabe adopted them literally because of Sam's addiction to canines." Benny added, speaking after a long time. He tended to do that. "He visits them twice a week."

"Yeah, anything to get the guy under my roof." Gabriel deadpanned.

"You're abhorrent." Sam scrunched up his nose with a look of disgust.

"Yeah, you're gorgeous, too." Gabriel flipped him off, his entire being a semblance of an oxymoron.

"Sometimes Gabriel gets the concepts of sarcasm mixed up." Chuck informed Castiel, speaking over him.

"I can see what you mean." Castiel replied with a full-blown smile, looking like he was thoroughly enjoying himself, though he was barely a part of the conversation. Dean found himself looking at him smiling without meaning to, until he was interrupted.

"It's time." Benny suddenly said, without warning, and all conversation died out.

Then like someone flipped a switch, every single person minus Castiel turned to the television. A few moments later, he followed suit.

"Who're you supporting?" He leaned in towards Dean, to whisper.

"We're completely impartial, and watch the game because we want to enjoy it in the spirit of the sport, and not for a particular side." Dean recited, looking at Castiel excitedly, and seeing that he was returning the look. Then, lowered his voice, and added. "We haven't decided yet. By half-time, over pizza and ice cream, we take our oaths of loyalties. We're going to get extras of everything, because you get to join in, today."

Castiel grinned. "Lucky me."

"So much for-"

"Omotenashi?" Castiel dimpled, and Dean has to strain his eyes away.

"Ahem. That's my line."

***

"I don't feel so good, Dean."

"Don't you dare disintegrate on me, Spiderman-style!" Dean lifted his head to look Sam in the eye, and Sam smiled tiredly at the Infinity-War reference. Dean had been closing his eyes as Led Zeppelin played in his headphones, and he absentmindedly danced his fingers to the tune. "Bitch."

"If I was going to, I would've had already. I had to say it three times before you responded. Jerk." Sam replied, instinctively. He'd been on his piano, playing some of his old favorites. There were no one but the brothers in Sam's apartment, at the moment. All of the others had left after an exciting match, which ended with Croatia defeating England.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, his eyes softening, as he pulled down the headphones around his neck.

"I don't really know. It's - Dean, I think I'm going to write a song."

"Isn't that your job description?" Sam's tired face is enough to make Dean change tact. "Hallelujah to that?" He added, more subdued.

"Not exactly." Sam grimaced. "It just came over me, all of a sudden. This idea. It's out of context. It's - it's almost strange. It's like-"

Dean straightened. "Wait a second. 'Devil inside your head', strange?"

"In a more collective sense than that." Sam sighed, seeming unreasonably disappointed in the matter. "Like, it's 'tugging at my roots', strange. Through all of me."

"Must you write stuff like this?" Dean huffed, without thinking of what he was saying.

"What do you mean? Crazy, hellish bullshit? You think I conjure it up!? Dean, you know that's not how it works with me!" Sam's eyes seemed to darken, a crease forming between his eyebrows. Dean takes a step back virtually, and regards Sam with unconcealed concern. "I didn't mean to snap, Dean. I just didn't plan on this. It's just - Forget about it. It's nothing. It's going to go away."

"It is." Dean trod lightly.

"Yeah, it is." Sam turned back to the piano, and let himself ghost over an old tune.

It is 'So Alive'.

"Seriously?" Dean smiled lightly. "From, quote crazy, hellish bullshit unquote, to fucking G. G. Dolls?"

Sam merely grinned, the weight from his shoulders seeming to have vanished as he begin to hum along. _"Feeling like a hero, but I can't fly; No, you never crash if you don't try; Took it to the edge, now I know why; Ever gonna live if you're too scared to die."_

"This song's older than you, you know that, right?" Dean teased.

"And you're older than it." Sam retorted, not really offended. "The tiny differences between being 25 and 29."

"Shut up, and play the damn song."

There's a bit of silence, as the song seems to die off from underneath Sam's fingers - fading away.

"Cas seems great," He suddenly spoke up. "Right?"

Dean stumbled with his words, his brain freezing. "Yeah. My contribution to the party." He murmured lamely, with a weak laugh.

Sam's lips seemed to stretch out in a thoughtful smile. "I'm glad you brought him. Glad that you found him, in the first place. He's a welcome change."

"From?"

"You want me to elaborate? Your dating history since Lisa hasn't exactly been the cream of the crop. Anna? Aaron? Bela?"

"How is Cas even related - Oh!" Dean felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice on his head. "Jesus, Sam! Cas and I are just friends! Nothing of the 'Bela, Aaron, Anna' sort." Dean shook his head firmly. "Not in the least."

Sam looked like he wanted to argue.

Dean's expression probably threw him off his determination to be right.

"Really?" He sufficed with.

"Yeah, really." Dean's mouth had suddenly gone dry. "What did you think? We were hooking up, and hanging out every day?"

"It's called dating." Sam shot at him his best bitch-face. Dean yielded pretty easily to that. "And probably, yeah. Yeah, I did. It was just - I'm sorry."

"It's fine." Dean forced a smile onto his face. "Though just saying; he's way out of my league."

Sam shrugged. "Dean, you're a really great singer, and famous." Sam looked like he was biting back an addition about him not exactly being ugly either. Dean stared down at his feet.

But he is a songwriter, and he speaks clear English straight out of a thesaurus, and cracks unlikely jokes, and deadpans like it's his second tongue, and is into Captain America, and can kick Dean's ass at most card games, and has that irresistible voice, and those fucking blue eyes, which seem to make Dean lose half his brain-to-mouth filter.

That trumps everything, right?

"Yeah, sure. Still. I'm me, right? A hot mess?" Dean shrugged.

"The sad part is that you genuinely believe the crap you say about yourself." Sam looked exasperated. The 'I'm tired, but if I wasn't, I'd lecture you on self-worth' vibe came off strongly. Dean got that at least five times a day. "I never understood why-"

"Just drop it. And, weren't you going to be singing?" Dean interrupted, attempting to change the topic. Thankfully, Sam seemed to allow that to happen.

"I wasn't going to sing." He protested, instead. But, he'd turned towards his piano, so Dean knew that he was only lying to himself.

"Why not?" He cocked his head.

Sam squinted. "Of course. Why not?"

"That's the spirit." Dean smiled lightly.

Sam begins to play a symphony. Soon, he seems to lose his trail of thought. Forget about Cas, or Dean too for that matter, because he's suddenly into what he's doing. It's Mozart's "A Little Night Music"; one of Dean's favorites, though he isn't big on piano solos - they're no guitar. But this one is one of the first ones Sam learnt in middle school - when Dean worked at the little cafe in Missouri to pay for his extra classes, and Sam seemed extra-eager to prove that the classes were worth each of Dean's busy evenings. But Sam's fingers seem to be beating the rhythm and rushing to the next note. It's not his most graceful performance, but then it seems to relieve Sam, and that's all that matters.

Dean listens to it till the end, his mind wandering off to strange subjects, before cutting him off - thoughtlessly. "Cas and I are just friends, Sam. That's how he - and I - want it to be."

Sam glances at Dean. "Okay, Dean."

Dean returns to his song, not wanting to face Sam any longer. He's started on another tune. Sam does this thing where he looks like he can read into Dean's head - and it's scary, because there's a lot of weirdness up that alley. So, he buries his face in the mattress, and straightens, till he's lying on his stomach. Music vibrates through him, leaving him feeling his very best. The song has changed, because Dean never paused it. But he doesn't mind. It's Hallelujah.

_Well I've heard there was a secret chord_  
_That David played and it pleased the Lord_  
_But you don't really care for music, do you?_  
_Well it goes like this:_  
_The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift_  
_The baffled king composing Hallelujah_

_Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah._

_Hallelujah!_

 

***

And outside of Dean's headphones, there's another song being hummed. Sam Winchester, his fingers dancing over the keys with expertise, as he bows his head, and sings to his own accompaniment, after much time.

 _It's feeding my mind_  
_No one is saving you_  
_How can you find_  
_A heaven in this hell?_  
_From the ashes of hate_  
_It's a cruel demon's fate_  
_On the wings of darkness_  
_He's returned to stay_  
_There will be no escape_  
_'Cause he's fallen from grace._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you had a good time! If willing, leave traces of yourself, here. We cherish them.  
> Have an amazing day!  
> Keep it sailing!
> 
>  
> 
> -With love and promises for a lot more.


	4. "Don't underestimate my Blue-Steel, lady."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have fun!

"No more." Dean mouthed to Bobby, who’s exhausted expression showed no sign of argument. But the both of them painstakingly kept looking at the young man on the other side of the glass, singing his audition, although they were both sure that this was not their guy. Perhaps Dean felt particularly strongly about it because the song was one of his favorites - Some Kind Of Monster, by Metallica.

The guy was wrecking Metallica and there was nothing Dean could do about it.

Dean had always had a strict policy about making the audition-ers feel comfortable and appreciated, because he too was a newcomer in the industry, and knew what it felt like to sing with people staring at him judgmentally - thanks to Zachariah Adler; the worst experience he's ever had with a producer.

So, instead of asking the kid to leave, they were letting him finish and then Bobby would let him down easy, because he agreed with Dean on that note. 

But seriously, how do you ruin a gem like that? 

It was as though this guy, Harry Spangler, and Ed Zeddmore -the guy before him who defiled Eye of the Tiger-were meant to be for each other.

Dean was adamant this time. No more auditions. There'd been enough, already. There seemed to be no one perfect to sing with him on-stage. The ones who were good singers either came with a cocky attitude or a desire to be Lead, and of course he wouldn’t try to perform with someone that couldn’t sing

He sank deeper into his chair, rubbing his forehead. This audition had lasted way too long,and they still hadn't found anybody. Dean tried very hard not to visibly cringe at Harry in the booth, who was singing the cross-lines, but it wasn't working out too well. 

Thankfully, he seemed too immersed in trying to ruin the song to notice Dean’s reactions.

Dean excused himself, silently admitting that he was being a coward to let Bobby deal with the kid, but he just wasn't feeling it any more, and he'd probably let himself go at the latter, and tell him to stop considering singing as a career choice while he still had a chance to switch lanes, because he could  _ not _ sing.

At least, he had the courtesy to pretend as though he were on a call, and held the phone to his ear with a very occupied look - perfected by his experiences with ditching the paparazzi.

Dean made his way outside, perfectly familiar with every passage, and nodded in acknowledgement at Tessa, the receptionist, who waved back, looking up from her important-looking files as if Dean were a distraction. She was sort of Singer Music’s support system. Leaning against a wall, he took a deep breath of the fresh air, and tried to get out of his head. 

Messed-up Metallica still rang in his ears. Who knew how long that'd stay with him?

Fuck.

_ You do realize you swear a lot, don't you? _

_ Yeah, whatever, Cas. He doesn’t, okay?  _ And even if he did, it was inside his head. That's allowed. As long he's not saying it out loud. Or in front of Cas. Which seemed less probable, his brain reminded him, because he hadn't even met Cas that day yet.

Usually, Cas would just call him at about nine, and confirm if they were meeting at ten. Dean would unfailingly propose to drive to his hotel, but Cas would insist that he 'hail' a cab to Dean's instead. And maximum by ten, Cas would be there, with a movie in mind, and quite possibly a whole array of questions for Dean regarding the last. 

Once, Cas brought him donuts - because he's awesome like that - and Dean treated him to two movies. Bobby then bitched at him for being late.

But yesterday, neither had Cas called, nor had he arrived. 

Dean had not been waiting for him or anything - because who  _ does  _ that!? -  but he'd certainly been a little disappointed. They were going to start X-Men and Dean was looking forward to that. And Cas had vaguely mentioned a liking for darts, and Dean had surprisingly found one - on the shelves of Toys R Us, but that isn't important.

What's important is that Cas hadn't showed up. And Dean may or may not have been looking forward to him being there and them talking too.

After his general worrying about how he might've freaked Cas out to the extent of not coming, he'd reached a consensus that he should call him instead. See if he was sick, or something. Because in some  messed up way, Cas down in bed with a cold was better than Cas being sick of spending time with Dean Winchester.

And then, Cas had not picked up his call either.

As Dean had sat, later, freaking out silently about ruining a decent friendship god-knows-how, he'd received a text. From Cas. Apparently he was as bad at texting as he was at talking - meaning, as good at it. He texted like he was typing out an essay, and in merely three sentences, seemed to put Dean's irrational worries to bed.

**CAS**

>>> **Dean, I'm sorry for not making it today. I got caught up in something. Please do not worry, I'm in LA, it's about Work, and Crowley is right here, so I'm ending this conversation. He tells me it's hilarious to update you of my schedule. I think you'd have found something better to do.** **Nonetheless, I apologize.**

So typical Cas. It was amazing how distinctly Cas-like the text was. 

He'd instantly replied with a short, yet effective message - explaining his thoughts without displaying his debauchment.

**CAS**

**< << Its fine **

**< << I get it - everyone's gotta work **

**< << Tell him to stay out of your phone**

**< << And fuck off**

And then, because Dean's an idiot, he adds,

**< << Nothing better to do. think again. See ya**

But Cas does not reply to that -  _ still  _ hasn't; Dean's phone is set to vibrate - and now Dean's kind of worried if that last message was a bit too flirty. He didn't mean to be - he shouldn't have been so truthful either. He hoped Cas would not take offense. 

But even more, he wanted to hear back from Cas. Like, in a checking-in kind of way. Like,  _ hey Dean, I landed back in NYC, let's go to a diner and I'll tell you about my day.  _ Or not, you know. Maybe a more sane,  _ 'See you tomorrow'.   _ Because, you see, Cas hadn't said it yet. He'd just apologized. Meaning, there's no knowing when he'll return from LA, and to Dean - Dean's apartment.

Of course, though. Dean only wanted to know in case he made plans. What plans he could make for before twelve noon, he was yet to imagine - but what if he made plans, and Cas came that very day. That's all. That's the only reason Dean wants to know where Cas is. And when he'll return. And they'll get to watch X-Men: First Class, and follow it up with Darts, and possibly a home delivery of Chinese, or maybe Indian. And they'll talk, and have a great time - like all of the other days.

That's the only reason.

It's not as if Dean is missing Cas after one stupid morning.

That's so ridiculous, and completely not true.

_ Are you in denial?  _ It's Cas's voice again.

No, and who asks that outright? So much for tact, Cas. At least maneuver it, so that he doesn't feel like Cas knows him too well. That's scary, for a guy with every kind of commitment issue there existed. That's scary, even for people with their heads screwed on  _ right _ .

_ You're being a son of a bitch, Dean.  _

Dean felt a wave of reality rush through him, as he realized that he'd been talking in his head. To Cas. More like, replaying some of his best lines, to Dean's own thoughts. That was creepy. Seriously creepy. Dean knew he kinda paid a lot of attention to things Cas said, but remembering them verbatim was probably all levels of stalker. And it's not like Dean was doing it on purpose, though. Dean only wanted to be friends with Cas - they had mutually decided to do so. But it just happened, that when Cas said things in that voice so magnetic, and accent indistinguishable yet  _ there,  _ and whilst looking at Dean like something crazy - Dean seemed to hang onto every word.

_ Now, that's a compliment. _

Dean's trance was broken by sudden shouting. It seemed to be from near the entrance.

Dean prayed it wasn't the young man from earlier, luckily no one had caused a scene so far and respectfully left. But there was the occasional "You don't know what you're missing out on", or "I promise I sing better on stage" guy. Dean always knew exactly what to tell those people. No one sings better on stage than they do in a booth, and Bobby Singer knows exactly what crap he's saving himself from.

Arriving at the gate, Dean saw the security guard fighting girl who kept screaming at his face. It was an impressive fight for someone her size - The guard, Cliff, was bigger than Sam, and very few are - but she didn't seem intimidated at all by the size of him. Cliff stood there, sheepishly looking at Dean, as he entered his line of sight. Dean was quite sure he looked confused. The girl was screaming profanities at the guard, and threatening him with an unreasonable amount of karate moves that were suspiciously similar to Star Wars. 

Then again she was wearing a graphic tee that read,"Free Throat Hugs", with a picture of Darth Vader holding out his hands. Violence and Star Wars, quite possibly the most dangerous combination. Also  one of Dean's favorite combinations.

Her outfit was a relief compared to the people who showed up in three-piece double-breasted tuxedos and whatnot - like they're at a wedding, if not a funeral. Needless to say, he admired her pluck - most people tried to be too professional for their own good. 

But then, it wasn't perfectly promising that she was attacking the guard.

He let out an amused chuckle before he could rein it in - Dean hadn't seen anything like it before. First for everything though, right?

"Uh, is there a problem?" He cleared his throat.

The woman turned her head towards him at his question, and her face seemed to be turning  the same vibrant shade as her long red-hair. Safe to say she was beyond pissed at the guard. Dean wondered if she knew who he was; even if she did, she didn't show it. A part of him appreciated her not freaking out at the sight of him - though it might be weird if she didn't know him altogether. 

_ Of course, does the security guard escort me to your door when I tell him your name? _

Not right now, he muttered to the voice in his head.

"I should think so." She growled, continuing to vigorously roll up her sleeves.

Dean pursed his lips, and exchanged a look with Cliff. He instantly began to explain the situation. "Sir, the thing is that she has been trying to enter the building, while we've been instructed not to let any auditioners come in after four. But she just doesn't accept that-"

"The  _ problem,  _ " The girl cut him off, emphasizing her words with a glare directed at both of them in all truthfulness. "is that your security guard is a complete son of a bitch." Dean felt the urge to smirk at the bewildered expression of the guard - he'd faced some tough nuts, but this seemed different. 

_ That's your favourite swear-phrase, is it not? You use it an awful lot. _

Was Cas's voice going to interrupt everything in his life, from now on? Dean was so completely screwed.

She continued. "He's not letting me enter! I mean, what kind of nonsense is that? What are we in, preschool!?" With this, she seemed to turn back towards Cliff, and glare at him.

As much as Dean would have enjoyed the fight sequence, he got in between the flustered guard and her.

"Whoa - Hey! - calm down, alright?" Dean let out a surprised yelp as the girl seemed to be trying to shove him aside, but Dean had been brothers with a Yeti for most of his life, and he's had some experience in dealing with things like this. He holds her wrist away from her, and squints. "Easy there, tiger!"

The girl calmed down a bit, though there was a resting frown. As tired as he was, Dean couldn't let the girl's fighting be in vain. A knight in shining armor, in the laziest sense.

And he had a slightly hopeful attitude about this one - Maybe it was the girl's shirt, or her ability to curse like a goddamn sailor. Dean respected bad-ass-ery, as much as he respected nerd-ism. Sue him. But whatever it may've been, he felt himself gravitating towards her. 

Maybe he'd let her audition, after all.

Fucking hypocrite, he proved himself to be, but who's flawless in God's world?

"Cliff, it's fine. Let her in." He spoke in the guard's direction, with a distinct nod of his head. And then, at her. "Okay. Come in, follow me."

She seemed to shoot a cheeky grin in Cliff's direction, before walking towards the building a few steps. Dean followed her, and was surprised as she suddenly hissed at him. "Will you consider it remarkably bad if I flip him off?"

"I won't tell on you to my manager, if that's what you're worried about." Dean replied, with a genuine grin. She smiled even broader - all the rage from her vanished.

"Thanks for that," her voice softened. "I mean, I would've entered this way or that, but you made it easier."

"Yeah. That's me, you see." Dean laughed. "Making people's lives easier is all I'm about."

"Okay. You're funny, Dean Winchester," She declared, as if it was something that needed reaffirming. If they weren't walking in an open space, Dean would've bowed dramatically, just for the sake of it.

"So, you did know I'm Dean Winchester."

"Of course I did! What? You expected me to have a, ' _ wait a fucking second, you're a celebrity'  _ moment or something?" Dean snorted, at her impression. "Of course, I knew! I follow your profile, and have been to plenty of your concerts! You're practically one of my favorite singers, and I love your brother's songs! I have a playlist dedicated to you! I'm trying to play it cool and hold myself together right now, because me fangirling in front of possible employers has always been a bitch that comes back to bite me in the ass. Also, in case you didn't know, you're kinda famous, Dean Winchester."

"Tell me about it." Dean said, and it was her turn to laugh. "So  _ why  _ am I letting you audition, again?" He glanced at her.

"Because I came here to do so, and you just helped me get past the guard so that I could do so?" She cocked her head. "We were in the same dimension back there, weren't we?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah. That won't work on Bobby." He felt, in some weird sense, as though he already knew her. It was easy joking with her. "You better have something good."

"Trusty ol' Brooklyn traffic?"

"It's no Manhattan." Dean raised his eyebrows. "That's what he's going to tell you, before he chucks you out. Something better, red!"

She didn't even seem to notice the address. "Maybe, I was too lost in listening to Keith Richards? Which, by the way, sorta  _ true  _ too."

"He's a Mick Jagger fan." They entered the building, and Dean once again smiled at Tessa, as he directed her inwards. "No way he's letting you sing, after that! And, what's the  _ whole  _ truth?"

"I blame Sirius." She sighed, and Dean paused to look at her.

"As in, Black?"

"Way to be racist, famous-white-guy!" She laughed cheerfully, making him open his mouth to retort something back, but close it anyways, laughing a little too. "Yeah, Sirius Black. I know most of the World blames him in vain, but it's true. I was too into Prisoner of Azkaban." She doles out the most sad look Dean's ever received - next to six-year-old Sam's asking for Fruit Loops with puppy-dog eyes, perhaps. "I'm genuinely sorry that I'm late. I hope I get to audition, Dean. It would be really cool to get selected. I've been a fan, since so long; and I pounced at the opportunity to sing with you."

Dean blinked. Moments like this are always touching, but she looks so sincere that he's stumped. He's silent for a moment. "Uh.."

"Will  _ that  _ work on Bobby?" She suddenly asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

Dean's taken aback, and he merely blinked again. "Wha-"

She laughs and cuts him off. "I'm kidding! I  _ meant  _ that, really. But if I pose the same monologue to Mr. Singer, with a little more drama, will he let me audition?"

"Maybe if you throw in tears."

"Crying for a chance to audition?"

"It's a  _ thing _ ." Dean folded his arms across his chest, as they reached the door. "Trust me, I would know."

"Are good auditioners ever nervous, Dean?" She seemed to whisper, her bubble of confidence popped for a second. Dean looked back at her, from swinging the door open to the place where one guy waited his turn. She looked white.

"Hey, listen to me, Red. You're gonna go in there, and you're going to do an amazing job. And I'm going to be on the other side of the glass, and I'll probably clap when you're done. Sound good?" Dean had absolutely no idea why he had the older-brother vibe going. It sounded like him pep-talking Sam before Dad pushed him into his first football match, or before his school play where he operated the lights and sounds, of course. Acting was  _ not  _ a skill any Winchester possessed. Nonetheless, she seemed to be radiating the same kind of nervous-vibe.

But then again maybe he was getting old.

"Thank you, Dean." She looked a lot less uncertain, and Dean was proud of himself. "I'm going to do good, yeah."

"Okay. 'Great kid, don't get cocky'." Dean winked, proud of what he'd just quoted. These were some ways in which he was  _ really  _ awesome, some of the time.

"O-kay, Han Solo." She looked so gleeful, that her smile ended at the edges of her face.

"And, you know what? How about I just tell him that I found you searching for the right place in this building, and that you'd come on time, after all?" 

She seemed to speechless for a moment, before she suddenly punches his arm, and beams directly at him. It's like looking at the sun.

" _ Did  _ we just become best friends?"

Dean wanted to roll his eyes, but her enthusiasm was probably contagious. So, he coughed, and forced the smile off his face because that wasn't his gig - 'Blue-steel' was - and rubbed his bicep where she'd hit him, in fake pain. "Just sit down, and don't injure another guy. There's already been three cases of it under this very roof."

***

"Your name, please." Bobby spoke into the mike, after she had assumed the headset and held the mike-stand with one hand.

"Charlie Bradbury, Mr. Singer." 

"And, which of the listed songs have you prepared?"

"Some Kind Of Monster, by Metallica."

And suddenly, Messed-up Metallica was chucked out of his head. And replaced by this version of it, which Dean was not quite keen on removing soon. She was  _ good _ . And her range seemed to be ideal, too. nearing the end of the song, Bobby placed his palm over the microphone, and turned to Dean, with an asking look. It could only mean one thing.

"I like it. I like her. And, I could work with her if you give her the thumbs-up." Dean shrugged, and Bobby smiled, finally. 

Well, at least it was the Bobby-Singer equivalent of a smile. Okay, maybe it did look like more of a grimace, but he was used to it. Dean quickly flashed Charlie a small smile, to ease her nerves a bit. He doubted Bobby's grimace would calm her down. 

"I'll discuss contracts then, and you may have found a partner onstage." There it was. Even Bobby looked satisfied. Dean felt the urge to smile at that look, but he knew it would wipe it right off. So, he maintained a straight face.

"Bobby."

"Yeah?"

"Can I be the one to tell her?"

"Idjit."

***

"Alright Dean," Bobby said. "I'll see you tomorrow, in the studio." He joined Dean in his walk out of the office. 

"Yeah. For the awards, right?" Dean confirmed. 

"Music Sounds." Bobby nodded, a bit grumpily. Nothing out of the ordinary, though. "The one your British friend got you."

"Crowley, yeah. I remember." Dean raised his eyebrows. It had been a while since he did something Live. "When is it, anyways?"

"November 3rd. The organizer will be coming to meet you. You can decide your songs, then. And I can schedule your sessions with Ms. Bradbury from the coming week - you could be doing a practice gig somewhere small. You know, check out the chemistry." He jerked his head in the direction of a yellow car standing in the parking lot, visible because of the color from far away. "Though I'm not having any major doubts, between you and me."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "That's her, you say? In the ugly car?"

"Unless Tessa bought a 1974 AMC Gremlin."

"Which would be going against every bit of knowledge I've shared with her." Dean laughed. "'Kay, Bobby. I'll go check on her. Maybe, hang out a bit. You know, so that we have the chemistry all set up for you."

"With whom?" Tessa asked, joining into the conversation, as she slings her handbag over a shoulder, and steps out from behind the desk. "Who's the lucky girl?"

"Why, you jealous, Tess?" Dean smirked at her, which is quite unjustified because there's a backstory there. But then, Dean excels at making situation weird, so she just looks at him with a little frown.

"Just worried 'bout her." She retorted, as the three of them exit the building together, and she departs in the direction of her sensible sedan, after addressing Bobby with a, "See you tomorrow, sir."

"I'm here too, y'know!" Dean calls after her, because he's immature like that, but Tessa doesn't seem to mind, as she turns and waves to him, like it's a chore.

" _ Bye _ , Dean."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean put on his best 'Whatever' expression. "Bye, Tessa." She rolled her eyes, before getting into her car. Bobby does the same thing, and Dean stubbornly frowns. "What?"

"Nothing. You remind me of John, sometimes."

Dean's pretty sure the smile is wiped off his face at that. "You calling me an asshole to my face?"

"No, I'm not. You're like him, though. Not in the - Not like that. He just was like that around women, you know. Being charming, and an asshole at the same time."

"Gross." Dean cleared his throat. "Seriously. Don't talk about him, Bobby. Please."

Bobby shook his head. "Okay. Now seriously, that girl's trying  _ very  _ hard not to look at us. Go see what that's about."

He nodded, still pissed off. "Okay. See ya."

"And, if I didn't mention, you're doing the main act in the Awards."

"Wasn't it 'Angels of Hell'?" Fucking Michael's band.

"Oh, they cancelled."

Dean would've high-fived Bobby, if there any chance of Bobby agreeing to that. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah." Bobby shrugged, because he was awesome. "Crowley might've helped."

"Bless his fucking soul." Dean beamed, because this was a victory over Angels of Hell. Over Michael, and Lucifer and their minions. Possibly the only contemporary he hated, with a passion. They'd screwed him, Sam and Charlie's Angels over so many times that he'd lost count. This was going to be good. "Thanks for the news, Bobby. I'll see you tomorrow."

And with that he made his way to the yellow Gremlin, and bent over the window of the passenger seat. Sure enough, Charlie was there. "Hey!" 

"I've been waiting for you, Obi-Wan." Charlie replied, sure enough, and Dean grins belatedly, because it's such an ideal quote and because none of his other friends quote Star Wars to him, and he finally found someone who shared the passion. "We meet again, at last. The circle is now complete. When I left you, I was but the learner; now I am the master."

Dean doesn't even mind the car he's leaning against, anymore. "I'm having doubts about the end of that," he said, in the best grumpy tone he can conjure up. Charlie's smile drooped, and Dean cuts her off, before it wanes any further. "You'd been practicing that in your head, hadn't you? And, what are you doing in the parking lot, again?"

"Telling everyone I know, about  _ us _ , and playing Hogwarts - A Mystery, as I wait for you, of course!" She said it like it's obvious. "C'mon, get in!"

"Did I miss any parts of this? Essentially, the part where I agreed to get into your ugly-ass car." Dean squinted, straightening.

"Listen. When I get my Christmas bonus from  _ your  _ manager, and  _ indirectly  _ from you, I'll go buy myself a Corvette Stingray." She deadpanned. "And  _ then _ , we'll talk."

"Nice choice." Dean laughed. "But an Impala '67 works just as well." He whistled, pointing towards his Baby, under the shade. Never gonna miss out on an opportunity to impress, with his beautiful car.

"That's yours!?" Charlie gasped. "I should've known. You're  _ such  _ a lucky bastard." She instantly bit her lip, and looked desperate to take the words back. "I - I really didn't mean it like that. Like, it's obviously hard-earned money, and the car's very beautiful, an-"

"Hell yeah, I'm a lucky bastard!" Dean shrugged, and just because of that, gets into the front seat of Charlie's car. "But you still didn't tell me why you're waiting for me. Did we make plans?"

"Okay, not out aloud. But I mean - we  _ did _ , right?" Dean looked at her quizzically. "See, now that we're work-buddies, we've got to be real-life buddies too. Build up the chemistry, and get comfortable with each other, and things." Her flame-red hair seemed to bounce as she spoke. "Right?"

"There's a very famous saying that quotes the exact opposite of that." Dean contemplated. "Are you sure this isn't just because you want to be seen with me?"

"Stop making such accurate guesses, or you'll give away my calmness."

"Understood. So, what did you have in mind?" He added, because he's a good guy - and he isn't turning down an opportunity to have fun. Plus, it'd make Bobby happy, and Dean was a great person to work with, thank you very much.

"Oh, I didn't really think about that." She frowned. "I was thinking, we could watch a movie or something? Go back to my place, maybe?"

"I like a girl who knows what she wants." Dean smirked, before he could activate the brain-to-mouth filter.

But Charlie looked at him with a look of surprise, rather than disgust. To be truthful, Dean rarely got a disgusted look when he tried to pick up a girl, but she seemed like the kind of girl who wouldn't be swept away by bullshit. Plus Dean was genuinely not trying to sleep with her, or anything. He had kind of stopped doing that these days - sleeping around.

And, after having compared her mentally to a teenage Sam, that was  _ gross _ .

"Excuse me!" She had a perfectly horrified expression on her face. "Did you just take the liberty to simply  _ assume  _ I was into men?" Dean's taken aback for a moment. 

"Implying, you're not?"

"Puh-lease!" She scoffed. "I never even got aboard that ship of chaos - I knew from the starting line at the docks, which side I played for! I'm a  _ ladies _ -chick, Dean Winchester, and I have no idea how you could've been mistaken about anything else, because I'm  _ seriously  _ gay." She has a almost comical expression on her face, with narrowed eyes. "I mean, I've been told I radiate the lesbian-vibe even without the pin, a pride-flag costume or, well, a lady at my lips." 

Dean chuckled at the expression. But puts on his most sincere apologetic look. "Sorry - I really am sorry! I should've asked! And, by the way, you  _ do  _ \- now that I pay attention."

"Oh, now that you're officially without a chance of scoring, and the mist clears, huh?  _ Straight  _ men, I  _ swear _ !" Charlie was clearly only teasing him, but he conjured up a hurt, prickly frown.

"Hey, don't  _ label  _ me like that, okay?" It wasn't exactly an identity he threw around town - unless he wanted to get laid - but in front of her, it was perfectly easy to say it out  loud. "I'm bi, myself."

"No kidding!" Her eyes widen. "That's  _ awesome _ !"

"What's  _ so  _ awesome about the fact that I'm into guys as well as girls?" Dean asked.

"Okay, don't ever underestimate your good fortune - you have  _ twice  _ as many choices! I know several people don't consider bisexuality valid, but still!  _ Twice  _ as many!" She began, with an expression that reminded him of Jo, for some reason. "And,  _ plus _ , I now have in mind the  _ best  _ thing we can do with our evening together."

" _ Evening  _ together? I thought it was just about ten minutes in the shotgun-seat of your crappy car?" He feigned disinterest. "I'm a busy man, you know!"

"If you had any important plans, I'd know." She narrowed her eyes, and held up her phone. 

"I'm not active on most of those apps." Dean folded his arms across his chest.

"Believe me. You don't need to be. There's people who follow you everywhere, who are." She said it so casually, that Dean rolled his eyes in disbelief. He's known to have fans, and for people like Sam or Gabriel to have stalkers, but who would be so obsessed with a guy like Dean Winchester?  _ Whoa, blow to the self esteem, man, _ added his subconscious.

Nonetheless, for effects, Dean throws a look of alarm, over his shoulder. 

She snickers. "So, are you free or not?"

Dean considered his options. Being home alone for no reason - Hanging out with Charlie. Maybe - just maybe - one side weighed down a bit. "Okay, I'm in. What are we talking about?"

She dramatically waved her hands in the air, looking prepared to launch into a speech. Possibly, a TV-series quote. "Ted, I challenge you to a dating Olympiad. 26 games over 11 days, we'll go to a neutral city -" She breaks off to glare at him. "Cut me off, Mosby!"

"Sorry," Dean raised his hands in defense. "I don't know that one."

"And here, I thought you were cool." Charlie sighed, dramatically. "It's How I Met Your Mother, dude!"

_ American sitcom with Ted Mosby telling his kids the story of, well, how he met their mother. _

Cas's voice drilled into his head.

He flailed for a moment, before blinking himself out of his reverie. "Okay. Still, no idea."

"The point is," Charlie tsked. "We're going to go to a bar. And we're going to see  _ who  _ can pick up more girls." Her eyes twinkled, and she spoke like a goddamn commentator of a soccer match. "And, at the end of the night, loser treats winner to Hot Wings."

"Hot Wings?" Dean pursed his lips. "How about a Bacon Cheeseburger?"

"Okay, mate." Charlie adorned a Southern accent. "You get yourself a bacon cheeseburger. Or two. But you're going to have to buy me Hot Wings, because I'm going to win!" 

"In your dreams, maybe." Dean scoffed. True, he may not have gone barhopping or picking up girls in a while - but he had the experience of so many years and hookups piled up. Charlie was cute - but there's no way she was getting more numbers than him. "I'm a handsome singer, and all I have to do is get up on that stage, and act drunk, and sing Right Said Fred."

If there was anything to be said about Dean's self-esteem, t'was that it balanced in the gap between his proneness to hookups, and his major screw-ups.

"Oh, yeah? Well, don't underestimate the number of closeted lesbians, and experimenting college-girls  in New York City!"

"Don't underestimate my 'Blue-Steel', lady." Dean shot back, grinning. "Or the multiple charms which you're immune to, but not everyone is."

"You know what, Dean? Give me a time and place, and I'll show you charms." Charlie beamed at him. "Or, even better. I'll give you the time, and the place,  _ and  _ a good show."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "So, wait. We're going to a gay bar?"

"Oh, no! Then you'll have to get guys' numbers, and that isn't fair to me." She had a mischievous grin. "Guys are so much easier to score."

"You wouldn't know." Dean rolled his eyes. Frankly, guys were more difficult to work with. For him, at least. Girls, he'd been picking up for years - even before he turned eighteen. By now, he completely knew how to be charming to them. But guys made him more self-conscious. More flustered. It'd only been a year or so, that he'd officially come out of the closet, and it was still a strange World out there. He'd not dated a guy, even once. There was just something unspeakable - which was why it usually struck Dean after the sex, in the talking stage - and he couldn't go through with more than three dates with guys. 

Gee, great parenting, John Winchester.

Nonetheless, it was playing to Dean's advantage that he would be getting girls' numbers. 

"Yeah, I wouldn't. But I've borne witness. And," her eyes shone with excitement. "I have the most perfect club in mind! Call it a bisexual-bar, if you would!"

"Perfect." He cocked his head. 

"Now, why don't you drive back to your place, get your beauty sleep and pretty-up, get into your favorite getting-lucky dress, and then meet me at the address I'll text you, at ten, and not a minute after?" Charlie smirked. 

"That's feels like another quote, somehow."

"Nope." She laughed, popping the 'p'. "That's original Queen of Moondoor."

"What?" Dean blinked. 

"Never mind. I'll tell you about it over my victory Hot Wings." 

"You're on, Red!"

***

As Dean drives back to Soho, he tries to shut off his brain, because it's a damn irritating device. It's making mountains out of molehills - as it it's favorite let's-freak-Dean-out pastime - and making the damn competition seem like a bigger deal than it is. He's going to be out, getting numbers from girls - for a game. It's not like he'd be sleeping with them. And, even if he was, where was the goddamn crime? It's not like he was seeing someone, or pursuing someone, already. He would be starting on a clean chit, and if things ended up with him hooking up with someone, it was perfectly fine. It had been two weeks, already. It's just a game.

He was not, in any goddamn stupid way, betraying anyone or anything.

Goddammit, he's not.

_ Are you in denial? _

No, and stop repeating yourself, Cas.

***

Dean parked Baby next to the club. It's called Ink. As far as Dean can remember, he's only been there once or twice before. As he takes a better look at it, he's pretty sure that's where they once bumped into Balthazar's ex who threw a drink at him. That was a fun night.

There are hardly two men in the line, and Dean eyed the bouncer warily. He didn't exactly want to win the unfair way. It'd be too easy.

"I think I'm on the list." He said, in the quietest voice he can manage. But a few people turn, and recognize him - possibly because they gasp, and start muttering. "Look for Dean Winchester."

"Big fan, sir." The burly man said, checking his sheet. "And no, sir. There's no Winchester. Though I can obviously let you in. The owners are going to want Dean Winchester in there, if they can help it." He clears the entrance, by taking apart the velvet rope.

Old-school. Dean liked that.

"Maybe check Charlie Bradbury." Dean told him.

"Yeah. Found it." He grinned, slightly. "That your alias, or something?" The man gave Dean a weird look but ultimately settled for a "You do you, hon." expression on his face.

"Nah, I'm with a girl named her." Dean shrugged, smiling at him, as he walked into the club. He took in the familiar scene - the entire place reeked of cigarettes, and booze, and sex. Dean tried to keep off of beer or wine, unless it was a social occasion - or spiked eggnog at Christmas, actually. In small amounts, other drinks were fine. But the last time he properly got drunk was probably his birthday. There was something so comfortable about the bar scene - the flirting bartender, and the tempting display, the dramatic downing of shots, and the feeling of being one with many. He loved it. Dean was in his natural environment.

The dance floor seemed to be filled with guys and girls - for an unimportant, and particularly sparse night. Dean couldn't exactly make out the music much - it was probably a local band, or just music piled up on top of the other. Dean couldn't make out Charlie either, but he spotted the bar. A Destination. 

Apparently, this was the kind of classy place which had cloakrooms. 

Dean stepped towards the counter, and took off his leather jacket. He handed it to the guy behind the counter. The guy slid a token over the table, to him, with a bored expression. Then suddenly, recognizing him perhaps, he straightened, and blinked. "You're not really Dean Winchester, and I'm beer-dreaming, right?"

Dean nodded, obligingly, but on his way into the club, caught sight of something that held his gaze.

A trenchcoat.

A beige trenchcoat.

Dean cleared his throat. So what? Millions of people wear beige trenchcoats. There must be at least five trenchcoat-wearing people under that very roof. That didn't necessarily need to have a connection with Cas. Of any sort at all. Cas wasn't here - he was in LA. Working.

What was up with this feeling of hollowness?

Dean's phone still hadn't buzzed, with a reply from Cas.

Huh, that was pretty normal. He probably didn't check his phone that often. Or everyday. Maybe he'd go through it at night. Maybe he was too busy working to check his phone. He must have appointments, and crap. Perhaps, Crowley was irritating him. Or he had read Dean's message and hadn't found it necessary to respond.

Or he was watching X-Men with someone else.

Dean marched up to the bar, with a frown on his lips more sour than he meant it to be. 

Lots of people wear those godforsaken beige trenchcoats, okay?

"Hey, Dean!" A very bouncy Charlie met him, at the bar; emerging from amidst the crowd, which meant that she was already here. She had a drink in her hand.

Dean forgot most of his baseless upsetness. "Hey! What do you think you're doing with a Caribou Lou so dangerously close to your lips?"

"I solemnly swear I'm up to no good." She replied with a straight face, before erupting into giggles. "Cool it, Dean. I promise you - no booze from tomorrow. Let me just enjoy it, one last night."

"I'm not exactly a teetotaler." Dean rolled his eyes, because Charlie sounded quite definite about quitting. As proof of his statement, he turned to the bartender - a tattooed guy. "I'll take a Port and Brandy."

"How colloquial." Charlie snorted, and Dean had to chuckle. 

"So, you already scanned the area for likely chances?"

"Damn right." She shrugged. "And, you know what? Me talking to a good-looking guy for too long only hurts my chances. So, I'll leave. Ready to get your ass kicked?"

"Shoo." Dean rolled his eyes, once more. "I'll start later, and still win."

"Said the Hare to the Tortoise." 

"How colloquial." Dean took his drink, and handed twenty dollars to the guy. Charlie stuck out her tongue at him, because that's such a mature thing to do, and left.

"Stay focused on girls for tonight!" She yelled, from a distance. Dean merely rolled his eyes.

He was so going to win.

Dean didn't exactly remember what it was that he was so deeply thinking about, while he was interrupted by a girl. He looked up, and without meaning to, let his eyes wander over her. She was kind of short for him, curvy in the perfect places, and had a drunk look in her brown eyes. She wore a black dress. But she didn't seem to mind him checking her out.

"Hey, are you  _ Dean Winchester _ ?"

Dean smiled into his drink. Time to switch off the crazy Dean, and turn on the charm. He cocked his head at her, with his best flirtatious look. "I'd tell you to shush, but people don't really care about that kinda thing here, while they're having fun on a Friday night."

Okay. Not exactly a strong start, but -

"Who said the both of those don't go together? From what I've heard,  _ Fun  _ and Dean Winchester have a long-established alliance." 

But, sometimes  _ this  _ comes from it. 

Dean Winchester, one. Rest of the World - Okay,  _ Charlie; _ zero.

"Okay, you got me." Dean laughed his not-a-care-in-the-world laugh, which was very well received. "I  _ am  _ pretty fun." A pun, without meaning to. She giggled. Good going, Dean. "Uh, it's been a while. So hey, can I buy you a drink now, or need we talk some more before I'm allowed to do that?"

"Both." She smiled. "I'm Heather, by the way.  _ Guilty  _ of being a fan." She added, with a giggle. 

"What should we do about  _ that _ , huh?" Dean leaned towards her, looking straight into her eyes. He could feel her staring back at him - eyelashes fluttering. It was working. "Well, I'm willing to let it go. What will you have, Heather?" He'd noticed her touching his arm, and lingering there. " _ I  _ won't be able to join you though. The cons of being a singer sometimes overcome the perks, and I'm left wondering if I shouldn't have went on to play for the New York Cosmos, instead."

"You played soccer,  _ too _ ? Wow!" Her drunkenness was visible, as she practically bent over the table giggling at that, allowing Dean a generous glance at her cleavage. Or maybe, she meant to do that. Dean wasn't complaining. "I can't choose a drink!" She pouted.

"Never mind. Surprise me," Dean passed thirty dollars to the bartender, who took it with a knowing look.

"So, what's it  _ like _ ?" She touched his arm, once more. "Being such a famous singer?"

She wants the sugar-coated answer, of course. "Famous? Oh, please. But being a singer? It's better than what I imagined, in the first few weeks. It was difficult then - new World, new people - but now the industry feels like home. Music makes me feel more like myself, than anything ever did. And the fans are the best part. It feels so surreal that there's someone out there whose day is made better by you. There's no better feeling. I'm in it for the people like you, Heather." Dean let his hand wander up her arm. This was going great. She batted her eyelashes at him.

The drink was served.

Blue Angel. 

Brandy,  _ Blue _ Curacao, vanilla liqueur, and lemon juice.

Sapphire blue, in color.

She sipped it, holding the glass with her left hand, as her right remained engaged, playing with the folded sleeve of Dean's shirt. Her fingertips brushed against his skin, feeling warm.

Dean took a sip of his own drink, but almost choked, because the color suddenly reminded him of Cas.

Fucking Sapphire Blue.

How was it that he'd never associated Cas' eyes to sapphires?

There was absolutely no better way to describe them. That's what they were like - sparkling lustre, rare like gems - desirable like gems. So blindingly captivating, that Dean had a hard time looking away from them. In his mind, without even closing his eyes, begun to replay all of the times he'd gotten fixated on Castiel's eyes, without meaning to. Talking on the phone, or over a board of Clue-do, or in the climax scene of fucking Doctor Strange.  

And Cas had stared back at him, his eyes expressionless but determined - until it turned into a staring match of some sorts which Dean was bound to win - even if he tore his eyes away in embarrassment - for, more essentially, hadn't he gotten to stare into those eyes, without context?

That's what Cas' eyes were, even though he hadn't replied to Dean's texts. Dean was willing to let that go almost, because his eyes were sapphire blue.

That's the color they were. Sapphire blue. 

"...Dean?"

Dean was broken away from his trance. "Yeah? Sorry."

"I said, did you come alone here?" She repeated, and come to think of it, it did seem as though he'd heard something blurry on the same lines a moment back, and just hadn't registered it. 

"Yeah. Yeah, I did." Dean sighed, cursing himself for appearing like a weirdo. "What about you?"

He took another sip. He'd hardly finished one drink yet. Perhaps it was just the dim lights, and the blaring music, and the proximity of alcohol that had his senses get so loose.

"No, I'm here with a bunch of girls." She smiled. "We got off of work, early."

"Uh, what do you do, Heather, that ten o'clock is  _ early  _ for getting off of work?" It was a relief that Dean still remembered her name, after zoning out completely like that. He had bad experience with that, shuddering at the slap from a perky blonde he received a few years back.

"I'm an Associate at Crawford Darby. Started year before last." She smiled. "I like singing too, but some of us aren't good enough to let go of the rope and take the plunge." 

Dean was more attentive - because being a sleaze was  _ not  _ attractive. Or decent. "If you genuinely like it, then you should not be 'fraid of the consequences of letting yourself go." He sighed. "It's not as though Crawford Darby won't hire you back, if things don't work out. Plus, there's a hundred other law firms. You really shouldn't let your insecurity hold you back."

You're one to talk, Dean Winchester.

"That's so true, Dean!" She spoke slowly, as if the drink was finally infiltrating her sobriety, blinking as though in awe, for some reason. "You're good at giving advice!"

Okay, perhaps this isn't the best time to offer life-changing advice. She could drunk-dial her resignation, if nothing else, and he'd be held responsible.

"But, let's not talk about serious matters, for now!" She added herself, smiling broadly. "My friends are playing Darts, over there! Join us - it'll be so much fun!" She twirled a strand of hair around her finger. 

Darts.

Darts?

_ I'm fairly good at darts, Dean. It's a pity you don't have a board, or I'd prove it! _

And then Cas had laughed charmingly - how else did he ever laugh?

They could've played darts. But Cas was in LA. Working. Not replying to his texts. Watching X-Men with other guys, of course. Not playing Darts with him.

What the fuck was wrong with Dean's head tonight?

It seemed as though, the later it got the more Dean's sanity wore away. He was still on the same fucking glass of Port and Brandy.

Yeah. Cas hadn't met him in two days. And hadn't answered his calls. Or replied to his texts.  _ Or  _ called him to ask if ten would be appropriate, yet again. So what? Why the fuck was it bothering Dean so much?

It wasn't supposed to. It was really not supposed to.

If Dean didn't know any better, he'd say that he was mi -

"...Dean!?"

"I'm sorry." Dean cursed under his breath. "I'm sorry I didn't catch that last bit. What did you say?"

"I said, that let's be partners in the game!" She repeated, frowning a bit. "Is everything okay, Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah." He was crazy, but what's new? "Yeah, I'm okay. I just - I just got lost in my head. Need to get out of this mess." Dean finger-gunned his head. 

She - Heather, right? - nodded her head sympathetically. "I get it. That happens." She leaned in a bit closer, and placed her hand more definitely on Dean's shoulder, squeezing it. It felt odd. "Do you want to get out of here, maybe?"

And here, Dean had had enough. 

He was not a dick. Not mostly, or on purpose, anyways. And he was  _ not  _ going to lead her on, when he had no intentions of anything more. Back to the game.

"Uh, actually - maybe, later? Like, some other time?" He bit his lip. "How 'bout you give me your digits, and I'll call you sometime?"

She brightened. "Oh, okay! Wait," She picked up a bar napkin, and with a pen that seemed to materialize out of nowhere, she wrote down her number. "Here. Heather Fray, from Brooklyn."

"Thanks, Heather." Dean sighed, inwardly, pocketing the napkin.  _ One _ . He could've done so much better had he been present in the conversation. But,  _ no _ ! He had to wander off, to crazy-land. Charlie was probably winning. "Now, how about you go back to your friends, and play Darts? Start the game?" Not subtle, Dean.

"Uh, aren't  _ you  _ coming?"

"I'll see if I can join you in a while." Dean coughed. "I'm going - uh, I'm going to the Men's room. And then, I think I saw someone I know, in the crowd. Or something. See you around, Heather."

"You will, Dean Winchester!" She walked off, swaying her hips as if she were sure that Dean would look. Yeah, okay, he did. Well, Dean may be feeling like crap for whatever reason, but he could still appreciate beauty.

He sighed, once she was out of sight.

He was clearly  _ not  _ out of practice. But even more clearly, he was out of his wits. As to what the fuck was wrong with him, tonight. 

But, determined to postpone that issue to a later issue of Psycho daily - one he could discuss on his whole life - he set about to finding another girl. He still had to win, didn't he?

The search was easily ended.

Dean was more confident this time, because she was more his type. Tall, and black hair, and an unsupervised slant for a frown resting on her blood-red lips. She wore shorts, and a shirt with an X on it. Bonus, she seemed seriously tipsy - borderline making-out-with-strangers drunk. Easily give-away-numbers drunk. He was not going to screw this up. He was going to be smooth for a change, and get the number, and probably kiss her goodbye. And not think of Cas during the entire exercise - because admit it; that's just creepy. 

He can miss Cas later.

...But that's not what he's doing anyways.

Pfft.

"Hey there," Dean walked up next to her, putting on his ladies-favorite innocent smile, and cocking his head a bit. "Is this spot taken?"

"Yeah, by  _ you _ , now - Captain America." She replied, without missing a beat, as she took down the cigarette from her lips, and stubbed it on the nearest ashtray.

Straight to the point, though - Dean used to like that. 

But, Captain America? Cas' 'type of guy', in his own words.

She might as well have swung a sign that read 'there a time when this really hot guy liked to spend time with you, and have staring matches with you, and now he's off in LA watching X-Men with guys sexier than you, and playing Darts with them, and winning every game because he's awesome, and hey, by the way, you're  _ his  _ type of guy too'.

Why did his brain move forward with leaps and bounds?

He cleared his throat. Time to return to the real world, which survived on un-cheesy pickup lines, and smolders. "I - uh, I saw you from over there, at the bar. And I just  _ knew  _ tha-"

"Yeah, I saw you eyeballing my rack." She shrugged, and Dean opened his mouth to explain that he was offended because he  _ wasn't  _ being a pervert - but she was smiling slyly, to show that she was only joking. "No kidding though, you're quite a catch yourself." Her words were a bit slurred.

"Thank you, obviously." He smirked, trying to clear the rest of the bullshit from his head and focus on the beautiful woman who was clearly interested in him. "What do I call you?"

"You call me whatever the hell you want for now," She egged him on. "But you're calling me whatever's your favorite fucking cuss-word for the rest of the night in bed, because trust me," She leaned in, seizing hold of his collar. Dean was dragged forward by the sudden movement, and her breath stank of cigarettes. He almost forgot the mess in his head, because it felt so familiar. "I'm  _ that  _ good."

"I trust you," Dean whistled, straightening. "And, I'm  _ Dean _ , and you get to call me  _ whenever  _ the fuck you want." Her eyes were dark, made darker by the lights of the club, and he suddenly knew what kind of guy she'd like. Her lips quirked.

You still got it, Dean.

"So, here's how it's going to go down, sweetheart." He inched closer, and she stared defiantly up at him, her eyes wild. Dean felt a familiar rush of passion go through him. "I'm going to go get you the best fucking drink on the menu, and then you're going to write down your number for me, and  _ then  _ you're going to let me-"

"I have all kinds of ideas about that part." She whispered, leaning in, to brush her lips against his cheek. "You give a girl all sorts of wild ideas, Dean."

Dean's breath hitched. "So be it." And he walked back to the bar, and ran his eyes down the menu once, before declaring, "A Bon Fire, please." He slid him two hundred-dollar notes, checking the price. Cocktails weren't any cheaper in regular bars than they were at the parties Gabriel and Balthazar kept throwing, all the time. "Keep the change."

"You're on a  _ roll _ ," The bartender comments, mixing the drinks.

" _ I'm  _ on a bender." Dean muttered, under his breath, in response.

"Here you go, Mr. Winchester." He smirked, handing over the fancy glass, and the money back. "My wife's a huge fan. It's on the house."

"Took you long enough to recognize me." Dean raised his eyebrows.

"Figured twenties didn't matter to a celebrity." He replied cheekily, and Dean had to smirk.

"Who, me?"

Dean returned to her, handing over the glass, and she held it with such finesse that Dean was taken aback. She took a sip, and apparently it was good, because she threw her head back for a second, and looked at Dean with even wilder eyes, panting. "Pity I can't share. Looks good." He shrugged. It did.

"Why? You a Reverend or something?" She frowned.

"If you think I  _ look  _ like one, I take offense." He smirked.

"If you looked like one, I wouldn't be accepting your drinks. You actually look like this hotshot I saw onstage, some time. I'm probably gonna be thinking of him if I blow yours, tonight." She said, so frankly, that Dean was taken aback for a second. "You mind?"

Dean re-positioned his smirk, and leaned in a bit. "Not  _ exactly _ . Seeing as I'm not planning that kind of a night, tonight."

"Playing hard to get is for teenagers."

"I swear I'll call you sometime," Dean held out the white napkin, feeling better about himself by the minute. Because this felt like old times. Except of course, before, Dean would actually end up going home with a girl like that - and not just be in for her number.

"Why do you think I'll give you the right number?" She hoarsely whispered, already scribbling digits. "I didn't even give you my name."

"I  _ know  _ you'll give me the right number." Dean whispered back. "Because I'll not be giving you mine. And you're going to want to get in touch."

"You're incredibly sure of yourself." Her words slurred, again. "What makes you think I'll even pick up your call? After you turned me down tonight, like this?"

"Because you're going to thinking of me for a really long time after this." Dean whispered. She shuddered, and Dean finally felt a bit of the old-him creeping into himself. The confident, smooth asshole, who got numbers from all the prettiest girls in town. "You want to know how sure I am? If I gave you my  _ number _ , you'd call tomorrow. If I gave you my full name, you'd come looking for my house."

She winked back. "You could at least be at the window, so that I know I have the right building, gorgeous."

_ You could be at the window, so that I know I have the right building. _

Same fucking line.

Same fucking line that Cas had used - sounding perfectly innocent yet subtly suggestive - and followed up with a laugh, because everything he said was fucking perfection, and he probably had all kinds of ideas what it was doing to Dean.

Same fucking line. 

Dean knew he'd spaced out, but he didn't care. He couldn't keep up the act any longer. This was it. He was not in the mood to be picking up girls - and he was not in the mood to flirt with perfectly beautiful girls who were hella into him.

He was not in the mood to be the kind of guy John Winchester had raised him to be. 

Because he was in the mood to go back home, and then watch some stupid chick-flick with no one around and have dinner a second time - because he could - and maybe listen to The Beatles.

And, he was not going to feel guilty about having these feelings any more, because it was perfectly normal as friends. Only as friends - to miss Cas. 

Feeling like he suddenly grew up, Dean swallowed his hesitation.

But, graciously, he pocketed the napkin which still lay astray in the girl's hand. "We'll see about that. I'll see you around.."

"Hey!" She announced, when Dean had walked away a few steps. "The name's Pamela."

"Pleasure," Dean yelled, because he was feeling a lot lighter in his chest now that his brain had stopped contradicting himself. He decided to go look for Charlie, before he changed his mind and went on to any more girls. Because mature-decision-making Dean Winchester was a temporary and rare occurrence.

He found her surprisingly quick - in the corner of the dance-floor, making out with a blonde Dean had never seen before. "Hey, Red!"

She seemed to snap out of it for a second, but didn't let her girl go. Her hands still wrapped around her, she lazily glanced at Dean. " _ Hey  _ there, Dean."

"I'm going home." He informed her, though she was kissing the blonde again, and by the looks of it, was completely unaffected by Dean's words. "I got two numbers, but I just remembered I got something else to do. I've gotta go. What about you?"

"Four, and you're  _ seeing  _ her." Charlie parted, this time entangling herself from the pretty blonde to stare at Dean. "But I'm not even sorry. She's a fucking fairy." Charlie fairly reeked of booze, by now.

"Last night for drinking," Dean reminded her, with a stern look. "And, I see you win."

"I'd say, 'good game', but two numbers!? You're disappointing, for having such a pretty face. If not for Gilda, I'd have been in the double digits by now."

_ " _ Yeah, but being as it  _ is _ , you  _ aren't,  _ and me - it was just not  _ my  _ night. I'll show you 'good game', some other time." Dean frowned. "I'll get your Hot Wings tomorrow."

Charlie waved her hand dismissively, because after flashing at Dean a large smile, 'Gilda, the fairy' was back to kissing his co-artist. Girls kissing, was once the  _ dream _ , but at the moment, it seemed to not be doing much to him. Not freaking out over a friend's absence was more in the moment.

Dean remembered a time he used to be cool like them.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, with no particular emotion but a messed up pile of many, as he made his way out. Reaching the coat corner, he slid his token towards the guy. The guy reached in, to fetch Dean's jacket, even as a girl ended up next to him, for the same thing perhaps.

Dean didn't know what got into him.

She was the unconcealed kind of beautiful - dark curls, and sparkly black eyes, and in a pair of ratty jeans, that suited her.

But that was not why Dean opened his mouth.

It was, instead, some weird way of testing fate. If each time his encounter with a girl would end up with him spacing out and thinking of Cas - if that was the end of the  _ line _ , for him. He wanted to try it out, one last time, and he swallowed his hesitation, and smiled directly at her. She smiled lightly, in return. She looked perfectly sober, and there was an academic air around her - she'd be close to Dean's age, anyways.

Third time's the charm, right?

"Hey! Going out or in?" He cocked his head, to look at her, and put on his most sincere smile.

"Out. Conscience got the best of me. My roommate has a test tomorrow, and I've got to help her study. Apparently, I can't be out clubbing even though I took my last paper today." She scrunches up her nose in indignance.

Dean laughed. She seemed nice. Maybe Dean would actually get through one proper conversation with a girl, before acting like a weirdo.  _ Maybe _ . "That's rule number one on the roommate contract. Still, I'm sorry for you." She grinned back, her eyes crinkling. "So, I'm Dean. And you?"

"Cassie."

Dean spluttered. "I'm  _ sorry _ ?"

"I'm  _ Cassie  _ Robinson." She smiled, a little more.

"Oh, okay." Dean breathed out, tentatively. The Universe was messing with him, now. He was a fucking toy for it's enjoyment. All it did lately, was mess Dean up. "Uh,  _ goodnight _ , Cassie." What a completely ridiculous moment.

"Goodnight." She replied, uncertainly, because damn sure did Dean sound like a complete idiot. Thankfully, he received his jacket, and he nodded at the guy, and put it on, and rushed out the bar like it was his first grade nightmare.

Cassie.

_ Seriously!? _

_ Cassie? _

Dean spent a long moment with his head resting on the steering wheel, and no music in the background, trying to think - and failing to do so. He got the vague feeling, or being in above his head, but at least he was going home to his apartment. He'd worry about being nuts some other day. Or about his obsession for things related to a friend. He turned up Bon Jovi, and took the shortest route back to Soho, on a night which was perfect for beautiful long drives. 

He felt lighter in his head now. For once, he'd made the correct choice. Thankfully, he now felt better about things, as he drove with the windows all down. 

He could say that he felt breezy, on principle.

***

At eleven thirty in the night, Dean sat in his living room with a ham and cheese sandwich - which he's proud of himself for making, since it's everything Dean wants from a late-night snack; tasty, cheesy, and cholestrol-y - and a DVD of Dr. Sexy M.D. playing, because he was alone, and could do whatever the hell he wanted to. Perks of being a roommate-less adult. He wondered if Charlie was still on the dance-floor with the girl - Gilda, right? - and if Pamela still sat smoking in the booth, with guys flocking to her like bees to honey. He decided, after contemplation, that the both of them had probably taken things to another level. His mind flickered to Victor, whose big album thing was tomorrow, and to Sam, who he hoped had gotten out of the creepy-songwriter phase, for both of their sakes. And inevitably, he thought of Cas, who had still not answered his text. 

So much for breezy, you big hypocrite.

***

At eleven thirty three, he wondered if he should text Cas again.

***

At eleven forty, he went off to his room, mad at himself for thinking of Cas so much, and deciding that he didn't deserve an all-nighter of Dr. Sexy. He had other things in his life except for him - so much more. But it seemed as though everything rounded up, and angled towards dear Castiel Novak, in the very end.

As he set up 'Hey, Jude', and got settled into bed, he tried very hard to think of Pamela and how his night would've ended had he not been out of his mind, and freakin' stupid, to ditch his perfect chances with a girl like her. But he ended up thinking of how Cas would not be there the following morning.

The Beatles attempted to draw his attention away from his pathetic state, in vain.

When exactly did he become such a lame-ass 29-year-old?

***

At eleven fifty four, the text finally sends.

**CAS**

**< << Know You're busy but I'm bored How was your day? Hope Crowley wasn’t too bad**

He considers sending, "My couch misses you." But then reconsiders it, and it's too cheesy for him and Cas. Maybe he could send, "When will you be back?" Again, same argument. Too Nicholas Sparks. Too Gabriel Speight, actually.

**CAS**

**< << hey, will you be here tomorrow?**

**< << Goodnight, Talk later. Take care.**

***

Dean goes to sleep, feeling disappointed in his own lack of willpower, and guilty because his system's messed up that way - and everything amounts to that in the end. Some glitch in how he was raised, probably. Or he's just dysfunctional, because he's Dean Winchester. The song plays, till he can't even hear it anymore though he's the one who drifted off - just the way he liked it.

_ And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, _

_ Don't carry the world upon your shoulders; _

_ For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool, _

_ By making his world a little colder. _

_ Hey Jude, don't let me down, _

_ You have found her, now go and get her. _

_ Remember to let her into your heart, _

_ Then you can start to make it better. _


	5. "We have a winner for the Golden Child of the month."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy National Beer Lover's Day! Well, celebrate - those of you who can! (Both of us are under-age; don't even know why I spew out such trivia.)  
> Hope you have a good time with the chapter!

Dean woke up to a headache and more importantly a heartache. A heartache from the lack of Cas in the last few days of his life. Dean sat up in bed, and buried his elbows in a pillow, as he reached for his phone. Not just for texts, of course - Dean does have a  _ life _ , though he doubts it at times. Of course, it isn't the best he's ever been - Cas still hadn't made any efforts to contact him since the pathetic messages exchanged. More wisely stated, the pathetic messages sent by Dean to his working friend, at freakin' midnight.

Speaking of which, he was acting  _ pretty  _ darn pathetic right now.

Dean, not that awake yet, but adequately exhausted from the abundance of thoughts he'd already had so early in the morning. Surprise, surprise - they're all about Cas. Dean sighed - he was going to give himself a migraine, with this Cas-related disorder. 

Dean's brain had been working - although, never that efficiently - for almost three decades now. He should start the morning with a little less thinking, perhaps. A little more  _ gym _ , probably, as he looked at his own reflection in the glass, before frowning at his own wallpaper which is a photo of a younger him and Sam, from back in college - he's developing a subtle double chin now,  _ goddammit _ . If only he were a couple more inches tall - Sam, in the photo, looked like he was thoroughly enjoying being a freaking sasquatch. He'd had the puppy hair back then. Dean was aware that he wasn't exactly  _ short _ ; but it would just be so much more amazing to be 6'1'' when your little brother was not 6'4''. It was such a blessing that Castiel was shorter than him. If you overlooked the fact that because of his build, Castiel seemed larger, probably - Dean could call him little, and get away with it. 

_ I thought we'd decided that you get to call me Cas. _

Where the fuck did that come from? That didn't even make sense.

Cas was driving him insane.

The events from last night set that in stone.

Unfortunately that passing thought brought up Dean's bitter defeat in his head, and he groaned. If any of his friends found out about him losing that game, he would be mercilessly teased for the rest of his life. Probably after too.

_ "Here Lay Dean Winchester; _

_ Not Able To Score More Than Three Chicks." _

His friends were just the kind of assholes who'd do things like that. Dean shuddered - he would have to make sure Charlie stayed quiet about that. He'd probably need something more than hot wings.

And, also probably, he'd have to stop thinking so much about Cas, because that was what brought about Dean's disgraceful defeat. Something like last night shouldn't happen again. His game shouldn't depend on if or not Cas texts him back or say, stops coming to Dean's apartment altogether.

Though, that's not really not going to happen.

He hoped not.

He instantly cringed at the sound of those words, running through his head. Dean was acting extremely clingy - he could admit that much; but Dean had just gotten used to Cas being around - and he didn't exactly control what thought entered his mess of a mind.

God knows what he'd be like if they were dating.

Dean hastily pushed that unruly idea away, because that was not something on the charts. And he couldn't afford to think like that. Especially when he knew Cas didn't feel the same.

Did he know that, though?

Well,  _ obviously  _ Cas hadn't been going about telling Dean that, because he was all manners - But of course, Cas didn't feel the same.

No point in pining over someone who doesn't think of you like that, right? Over someone who ignores you. His conscience - the small part of Dean's existence which was usually responsible for shitty-ass decisions like Carmen, or more recently, Lisa - scolded him for that. Castiel did say he was busy with work and Dean knew he should be at least a bit more understanding about the struggles of a newcomer as a lyricist. He hadn't ever witnessed Sam struggle with getting work - but then, not everyone rode home on big waves of luck.

Nonetheless, for the sake of his sanity, he better word his self-deprecations more delicately.

Scrolling through his phone, ignoring the emails and shit he was not in the mood for, Dean nearly fell out of bed at the missed calls from Ellen. Fucking six. He was going to be dead sooner than he'd like. 

Ellen rarely called for a fresh batch of Dean's mental issues - though Dean suspected she would start doing so, if she knew the state of his head these days. Most likely that this was about one of those dinners, which Ellen hosted now and then, so that her 'family' wouldn't be like one of those which only met on Christmas and Thanksgiving. It was usually pretty fun. But, he frowned, Ellen of all people should know by now that Dean's sleeping habits were on a strict schedule of I-won't-bat-an-eye-until-after-nine. 

Still, as it were, it was probably a better idea to start the day with Ellen's endless scolding, rather than solitary inappropriate thoughts regarding Cas.

Dean immediately called her back, not wanting to cause further chaos. He was in some deep shit, with six missed calls already. He held his breath, when she picked up the phone, prepared for a tirade.

" _ Dean Henry Winchester _ ! What do you mean by not returning my damn phone calls?" Came Ellen's voice, strict. Dean felt his lips twitch to smile, because Ellen rarely middle-named him. 

Dean had to look down to hide his smile, at the motherly tone in her voice. She practically was the closest thing he'd ever had to one. Losing his mother at four had been bad - but it had probably struck Dean  _ exactly  _ how bad it was, when he was older. It was bad enough to have John Winchester as a parent - let alone the only one. But, a short while after Dean left his dad and joined Sam in New York, Ellen Harvelle - always a family friend - had subtly, and effortlessly filled the gap which was left empty by Mary. In Gabriel's words, 'it was all very heart-wrenchingly and poetically meant to be, and all that'.

Yet, obviously Dean couldn't do all of the 'feelings' crap around her. So, he followed the ever-trust-worthy method, and cheekily replied, "I returned it  _ now _ , didn't I?"

He could practically see Ellen standing behind the slab, probably in her plaid apron which she saved for the occasions when she was in the house's kitchen, and not the bar's - with her hands on her hips, glaring at everything in particular, because she couldn't glare at Dean directly. 

Fuck, he missed her.

She huffed, and Dean almost chuckled at that, but caught himself just in time. That would call for some serious getting-yelled-at. "How're you, Dean?"

" _ Peaches _ . Friggin' awesome. Living the dream. Never been better."

"Keep that sass to yourself, okay?" Ellen's voice was affectionate. "What's got the celebrity so cranked up this early in the day?"

"Trouble sleeping, I guess." Dean was usually a better liar. "Not really a big deal; kind of a before-coffee head-rush situation."

"Said it once and I'll say it again, you need a maid." Dean sighed, not really arguing with her, but knowing perfectly well that that was the last thing he was going to do. 

"I need a  _ whole  _ lotta things, and the maid's got to wait in line." Dean whined, because Ellen was encouraging him to do it - as he turned on his coffee maker.

Ellen made an amused sound. " _ Well _ , there's dinner at my house tonight, and Sam's coming. Jo too - I should set up a plate for you, right?" There was a pause, but Dean wasn't sure Ellen was quite done yet. "And, Jo might be bringing someone - I'll have to check out this guy, who she's been seeing for almost a month now. Family-introductions are a new page in Jo's dating book -"

"-I get it, you wish for my expert advice about her boyfriend."

Ellen didn't reply to that. "You can bring someone too, if you want."

Dean's face burned at what she said, his mind fixated on Cas. Don't even ask him why. He obviously couldn't tell Ellen about him yet. Ellen wasn't interested in Dean's handsome new friends; she must only be interested in a potential interest - like a guy Jo's been dating for a  _ month _ . Cas was not that - obviously. 

And  _ even  _ if Dean did invite Cas - as a friend, and as a decent human being - Cas would be too busy with whatever work stuff he had going on. Probably in LA. He hadn't even replied to Dean's text - let alone show up as he  _ should've _ , because it was ten o'clock. Dean begun to pour out his coffee into his mug. It made no sense whatsoever to ask  _ Cas  _ to come along to Ellen's family dinner.

But he was amazed at how his brain had instantly leaped to Cas as his first option, when Ellen suggested bringing along someone.

That was all kinds of weird.

In any case, this was starting to become the sort of thing he needed to consult a higher authority for. Believe it or not, even the supremely-independent-and-mostly-functional-adult Dean Winchester had to turn to someone for advice. Sometimes. And both of those 'someones' were going to be at the dinner. Sam Eternally-Bitchfaced Winchester, and Jo Wordlessly-Judging Harvelle.

"No -  _ No _ , just me." He said in a slightly higher voice than he would've liked to.

He once again, visualized the suspicious look Ellen would have given him. But thankfully she seemed to ignore his little slip up. Ignore as in  _ not  _ ask every single one of his friends if he was seeing anybody. 'Ask' is probably a loose term, considering the fact that she does something more along the lines of police investigation. He grinned at the memory of poor Balthazar who'd been "interrogated" after Ellen thought Sam was seeing someone, because 'Star' thought so - Sam later confided that his daily trips were  _ actually  _ to Gabriel's house to see his puppies, not as an alias to cover up an affair. Nonetheless, Balthazar  _ still  _ avoided Ellen. 

She read way too many tabloids for her own good, though she'd never admit it to anybody. But Dean knew - because no one just has an epiphany that Dean was with someone, unless they read in 'Star' that Dean Winchester - singer of 'Mis-Address' and 'Long to be It' - had been seen with a brunette on his arm, in Las Vegas. It had just been a one-weekend-stand, at the end of things, though. 

But he also knew, that Ellen just cared. He appreciated her, he really did.

"So, you're coming or you have something else?"

Dean sipped his coffee, looking at himself in the mirror, his best shit-eating grin. "You could sound a little bit more like you actually  _ want  _ me there."

"Actually, you better get your ass over here in time, or no pie for you, Winchester." She replied swiftly, and Dean was caught in his own foil, because no way in hell was Dean missing pie, not for the world. In fact if it came down between the world or pie, Dean was damn sure he'd choose pie. Especially Ellen's family-dinner pie, which she makes keeping Dean's affinity to the crust, in mind and which is, in all, fucking  _ delicious _ .

_ The world's aware of your weakness? _

Yeah, Cas. I'm an open book. Now, shut up in my head, if you're going to be so mute in reality.

"Yeah, yeah. I'll be there, Ellen."

***

He parks Baby at Singer Music at exactly noon, and waves dutifully at Tessa’s niece who's staring at him with wide eyes from her stroller and making baby-noises - Dean isn't exactly sure it's Bring-a-niece-to-work day, but fuck, having fans who look at you like that is the  _ best  _ \- at reception before dashing into the studio, because Bobby doesn't make exceptions for him.

The organizer from MSA comes in - Crowley in tow, which means Castiel is  _ back _ , but Dean grows a pair and  _ doesn't  _ ask about it - when Dean's in the middle of 'Sweet Home Alabama' and they decide three songs which Dean will sort of mix up - it's a bit like acapella, that way - for his generous seven minute prime-slot. Bobby appears all kinds of happy after he re-enters the room after his personal meeting with Mr. Ketch and Crowley, and he reveals the figure Dean will be getting for his prime slot. He couldn't possibly think he deserved more. Bobby then goes out for his meeting with the manager of Trendy-Place, Nice-Ville - Dean wasn't really listening, but he knows Bobby wants to arrange a low-publicity 'surprise' gig, which is all the craze these days - and leaves him with voice coaches who'd been Dean's support-system the first years of his career. He wonders if Bobby thinks he ought to go back to square one, until Charlie Bradbury comes up, wearing a fucking Shadowhunters quote on her shirt, and Dean's first reaction is to send a guy for hot wings from Dan and John's.

Practice with Charlie, as per earlier assumptions, goes great.

***

Dean knocked on Ellen's door tentatively, cursing at himself for being late. Seven, in Harvelle-lingo meant seven. His 5-minute-nap had ended up being 3-hours-of-dreamless-slumber. Ellen was going to kill him, a common theme for the past few days of his life.  He saw Sam's car occupying the better parking spot - a black 2006 SRT8 Dodge Charger with dark windows to escape media attention - in the driveway, and heard laughter from inside the house that sounded undeniably like Jo's. Great the gang’s already here. He was indeed very much so screwed.

Dean's hair was still damp from his shower - and the cool breeze wasn't really helping. He was fucking freezing. His trusty Metallica shirt and jeans weren't doing him any favors tonight. Dean glanced back at the driveway, absolutely loving the way Baby was shining in the streetlight - she was a classy  _ lady _ , and Dean treated her like one. He let out an appreciative whistle as his gaze strode to the 1977 Pontiac Firebird, which he would admit, was a damn  _ fine  _ car. Of course he'd never cheat on Baby - but there was still the small part of him that admired the car.

Dean's eyes wandered back sheepishly to his Impala, feeling guilty for checking out another car. Who did it belong to? Maybe Jo? She didn't even mention having bought a car at their last hangout. She did show a liking to them - more than his dork of a brother, anyhow. Dean wondered if Sam even knew how to make right a jammed engine - well, he probably did - but Dean liked spreading word that he didn't to exercise his right to defame, as an older brother. He and Jo used to endlessly talk about cars, while Sam watched with them with a frown on his face, hair over his eyes and book in his hands. Not that the hair bit had changed.

_ Those  _ were the days.

As Dean carried on his inspection of the four cars in the driveway, Ellen opened the door, trying hard not to smile at Dean, but to keep the disapproving frown, probably for being late, but one of his childish smirks did the tricks and she was smiling at him within a matter of seconds - one of the classic Ellen Harvelle smiles. One hundred percent success rate.

"You're late," Ellen stated, and crossed her arms across her chest. "I'm going to have to think about pie, for you." 

Dean put his hand to his heart dramatically, "Anything but that, Ellen!"

Ellen chuckled knowingly as she let Dean follow her in, after a thump on his back, mumbling about how she spends most of her time feeding Dean.

That was not  _ completely  _ untrue _. _

Anyhow, he resolved to himself,  _ tonight  _ he would forget about Cas for a bit. He needed that - he owed it to himself. Ironic, how people go to a bar or get drunk to distance themselves from something; but Dean just needed a walk down memory lane. It always fixed him up just fine. And Ellen was practically 70% of all his memories. Mixed with Jo and Sam, tonight would be awesome. He toyed with the Power-Off button hesitantly. If Bobby called and he  _ didn't  _ answer, he would be dead - but he needed this tonight. 

Tonight was going to be about family.  _ Isn't Cas -  _ He shut the thought down, before it could form.  _ No _ , not tonight. He finally switched it off.

He walked to the living room, as Ellen rushed back into the kitchen, and beamed at the sight of Jo's head peeking from over one of the sofas. Sam was seated across from her; he looked at Dean for a second, but Dean put a finger to his lips, silencing him. Sam looked like he was going to protest to Dean's childishness, but for once, didn't and pursed his lips and shrugged, as if to add his approval to the idea.

For old time's sake, Dean grinned to himself, as he crouched behind Jo's sofa dutifully, and waited till she had stopped laughing to jump out. He was probably the one laughing the hardest, as he yelled at the top of his lungs and gave the sofa a push, and ruffled her hair messy for effects, despite earning a sharp back-handed slap right in his face, as Jo's hands flung up. Dean heard a surprised grunt from the floor in front of the couch, and he saw the face of someone he didn't recognize. But before he could process the new appearance, Jo let out a squeal for some reason as she got out of her seat, and rounded around the couch to hug him. 

" _ Hey _ , jack-ass!  _ Jesus _ , you're going to be mistaken for a five- year-old if you keep that kind of shit up! I missed you, you complete dork!" She pulled back a bit, smiling so wide that it kind of stretched past her cheeks. "That's Cole by the way." She tilted her head towards the man seated on the floor. Probably who the car belonged to. The One-Month-Boyfriend, who Ellen had mentioned. Dean sized him up the best he could while being straddled by all of a girl - he couldn't be too bad, driving a Firebird like that. People liked to say that dogs look like their owners, right? Well, Dean thought the same was applicable to cars too. For example,  _ Baby  _ was a knockout, Dean was  _ too - _ Sam had laughed in his face, when Dean brought up his theory after one too many to drink. Dean couldn't find any humor in his own words.

Jo hugged him for a full minute, till he ultimately hugged her back, laughing at how she still smelled like vanilla and peaches. Jo's used the same shampoo since, like, 6th grade - Dean and Sam would give her hell about it like anyone's supposed to - because the brand was meant for children. However, Jo claimed it made her hair nicer and softer, and stuck with it because she could be particularly stubborn herself. During a particularly annoying phase Dean went through, where his life goal was to make everyone else's hell, he'd replaced her shampoo with mustard. Dean would never forget the blood curdling screams he heard from her bathroom that night. Needless to add, she kicked his ass for it the next morning when Dean was identified as the doer of the crime - he ended up needing ice for his black eye, which Jo flung at his head dutifully, and a sprained ankle which Jo later helped him walk with, because she was awesome like that. Nonetheless, he couldn't exactly use the, 'You should see the other side' rule, because Dean Winchester did  _ not  _ hit girls.

"Still going strong with the peaches, huh?"

"Shut up."

Dean was snapped out of yet another memory when he heard the man from the floor - Cole right? - say, "Geez, Jo, you're killing him!" Jo stiffened for a moment around Dean, and detached herself, looking at Cole rather debauched. Dean followed her gaze.

Dean had no idea why his jaw was clenched, probably some sort of statement that Dean was going to ignore by a mile. Like  _ hell _ , some random boyfriend was going to intimidate him, especially not in front of his family. Jo's had plenty of boyfriends, he didn't see anything special about this guy. He struggled to stop his thoughts from drifting to Castiel. Dean hated the fact that even he - the King of Denial - couldn't deny that he would have had a similar reaction to Cas hugging someone like that. The guy didn't exactly come across as a hugger, but now Dean's head resolved to imagine Cas hugging guys in LA. Probably tall, blond guys who were his fucking  _ type _ . The mere thought made him clench his fists.  _ No more Cas, tonight. _ He tried the mantra several times, but the more he concentrated on forgetting Cas, the more he seemed to round back to wondering of him. The raven black hair, artfully mussed over his head. And those eyes, the eyes that looked like they had everything in them. Dean's future, his time, and his past.

_ Take a fucking breath, and calm down, Romeo. _

Dean switched his concentration over to Cole who was eyeing Dean in what he could only classify as suspicion. He was tempted to yell something back, but didn't, because he wasn't in the mood to fight Jo's boyfriend. But the look Cole gave him reminded Dean of the eager paparazzi, desperate to catch Dean saying a word out of place and giving away some privy information. What even was the guy's problem?

Dean scoffed in retort to the glare - this guy wasn't settling right. 

Jo, noticing the tension building up, awkwardly cleared her throat. "You know what, boys? I think the food is ready so - yeah - I'm just going to, you know, leave." She looked in the direction of the kitchen, as Cole begun to stand up.

Jo grabbed an amused Sam - silent up until summoned because he's a freak - and begun to stride out of the room. She paused before leaving the living room, and Dean saw the mischievous glint in her eyes, and instantly comprehended the situation. He took a step ahead -

"Race you." Jo declared, without warning or explanation, but Dean had anticipated it, and took the first step.

And with that, Jo and Dean were practically  _ flying  _ through the ten yards of carpeted floor, both way too eager over the ridiculously simple game. It was not as though Dean didn't realize the absurdity of the activity - but Dean sure as hell wasn't going to lose to Jo; who he'd been beating by 3 races, if he remembered correctly. He was neck and neck with Jo, with Sam just jogging behind on his sasquatch legs, and Dean hated the fact that his brother would probably win by a landslide if he tried.

Dean got to the dining room first and smirked at himself, proud. But he also had the urge to double over and pant for the rest of the day. _Man, he needed more exercise._ Or, maybe he was getting old. But before he was even seated at the table, Ellen fixed him with a stern look. "Did you wash your hands?" Sam jogged up behind him, drying his hands on a towel, looking like the epitome of obedience, while flashing Dean a cheeky grin. "Hey."

Dean groaned at the both of them, and stomped his way to the bathroom - because getting to the table was the race and he'd been forced to take a detour. He caught a smirking Jo behind him in the mirror over the sink - definitely not panting, to his dismay - and was taken aback at how much her smirk mirrored his own. She hadn't won either, the childish part of him screamed. Okay, maybe that was all of him.

"Looks like we both lost, Winchester." She laughed pristinely, before strutting out to the dining hall.

Dean huffed at her, and washed his hands -  _ Damn,  _ he was losing everything lately. First the Charlie thing, now  _ this _ ? What a rookie mistake. What's next, his  _ sanity _ ? Although a small part of him screamed that Cas was already doing that to him. Looks like his tombstone needed a bit more space for the words,  _ Eternal Hypocrite _ . Because he was thinking of Cas again.

Dean saw Jo seated at the table and sat next to her, not missing the furious ticking of Cole's jaw. Dean tried to look away and ignore the sheer pettiness of a jealous boyfriend directed at him - Jo was like a  _ sister  _ to Dean now; he'd never try anything on her.  _ Gross _ . But Cole here, seemed pretty convinced otherwise. It was so evident, and made Dean cough so as to deter the latter's steely gaze.

After Ellen set the table - something they all assisted in, to be fair to Sam - Dean eagerly waited. It smelled absolutely delicious. His stomach was growling, despite having eaten a snack bar before leaving his apartment. He hadn't had such  _ amazing  _ home cooked food in a while. Emphasis on the adjective because, he couldn't cook amazingly. Or  _ satisfactorily _ , to be fair. Sure, he could whip up burgers like no one's business, and knew the basics of survival without take-out, but those didn't exactly qualify as the food Dean was looking at, right now. Unknowingly, he wondered if Cas could could. Something told him he probably didn't, and Dean let out a breath, because he'd thought of Castiel for a second. Perhaps, he was going to have to approach this issue as anyone would any addiction. You can't take away an addict's cigarettes all at once. You still have to give him the nicotine patches. The same goes for him, too. Right?

Dean's attention was snatched over by the meat loaf that Ellen couldn't serve him fast enough, because so help him God, it looked even better sitting on Sam's plate.

Finally, she served the meatloaf, smiling softly at Dean's child like expression. Dean took a bite, not bothering to follow any sort of etiquette, knowing he'd get scolded later. Fuck it. He missed Ellen's cooking. He all, but moaned in satisfaction as he ate. Dean greedily shoved the food down his throat - noticing the 'do-you-not-get-food?' glances that everyone around the table was throwing him. Sam looked positively repulsed, and had a prissy expression on. Dean wanted nothing more than to stick his tongue out at him, but with the food in his mouth, it wasn't that great an idea. Anyways,  _ sue  _ him for enjoying his dinner.

Ellen watched him in partial amazement, hand to her chin.

"Would you like some more?" A bit of uncertainty in her voice, as if she wasn't sure it was a good idea to feed him any more.

Dean gave her a nod, unable to form words, for his focus was on the food. Cole was playing around with his fork, not having touched his food, but Dean caught him looking at him and Ellen out of the corner of his eyes. He whipped up his head, to look him in the eye.

"You on a  _ diet _ , dude?"

Cole returned his gaze with a forced look of diplomacy, his jaw ticking furiously. He didn't reply to Dean, while taking a big bite of whatever mush he'd made with his fork.

Jo was still focused on Dean, her expression mirroring Ellen's, not even noticing Cole on her other side. "Could you eat any faster?" Jo asked, eyes wide at the pace Dean set for shoving food down his throat.

Dean gave her a shit-eating grin, opening his mouth a bit knowing that she wouldn't enjoy the sight. She scrunched her nose, in disgust. "I dunno-  _ maybe _ ? I'd try if you asked nicely, Jo."

"And to think, I was ever even  _ remotely  _ attracted to you," She rolled her eyes, putting her hand on Dean's shoulder with a smirk. "What a waste of my childhood." 

There was a loud noise suddenly, as Cole pushed his chair back, with unnecessary force and walked out of the room without a word. Jo looked around the table incredulously. Dean smirked, knowing exactly why he left. He couldn't be bothered with looking apologetic, even for Jo's sake. She looked almost angrily, and a bit hurt, towards the living room where he'd vanished. Dean - unfortunately - had several experiences of being with a jealous girl, and understood her guilt. 

"Please - just a  _ minute  _ \- excuse us," Jo hurriedly, followed after him. Dean turned to his food, and once there was a settled silence among the remaining three of them, set his fork down and looked up. 

"I don't like him." Stated Ellen and Dean at the same time.

Both of them looked at each other and Ellen let out an amused chuckle, while Sam sighed with relief, "Oh, thank God - I thought I was the  _ only  _ one."

"He's been out to get me since I got here," Dean growled. "What the fuck is his problem?"

" _ Language _ ." Ellen chastised, as a fault of habit. His swearing wasn't new to the house, but he still shot her a sheepish look of apology. 

The three of them listened, trying to appear nonchalant like experts - it isn't eavesdropping if it's this easy to overhear - as Jo and her boyfriend pretty much yelled at each other. 

"-were you two  _ together  _ or something?"

"- _ No _ ! It was a teenage crush, Cole! I was eighteen!  _ Jesus  _ \- calm  _ down _ . Dean's like a brother, now! You have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Then why have you two been making eyes at each other the entire time?"

"What the -  _ No _ ! Making eyes? Cole, he's Dean! We don't make eyes at each other! We're friends, and you don't  _ get  _ it at all -"

Dean refrained the urge to chuckle at how badly Cole understood Jo. She was friendly with everyone; it ran in her family. It was one of the parts of her Dean found extremely endearing - how she got along with everyone! Dean could probably help Cole understand the wonder that is Jo Harvelle better, if he hadn't turned out to be such a douche. Dean doubted if Cole would talk to him straight-faced now and decided against giving him a lecture.

His amusement disappearing once the shouts were followed by a slam of the door - the front door, since that was the only one in the vicinity - while Jo walked in; eyes red. She sniffled a bit as she wordlessly took her chair, and Ellen instantly put her hand over hers on the table, muttering sweet nothings probably - the side of Ellen Harvelle which only came out when Jo cried. 

Dean, for his part, was going to kill Cole for making Jo cry. 

But as if he'd read his mind, Sam said, "No, Dean. Not in public."

Fuck, had he said that out loud? His eyes met with Dean in relatable passiveness, which would soon give way to sheer anger after Jo was feeling better - perhaps. Sammy was mature and completely functional that way.

Dean watched, not knowing what to do because he hadn't seen Jo cry in a long time. Sam walked over and gave her one of those hugs where he was sure Jo couldn't breathe for the entire time; but he was always better with her when she was upset. Dean was merely entertainment -making her laugh and irritating her off her rocker; but when she truly needed him, he didn't know what to do. He hated himself for that. But resolving to himself, that  _ that  _ was back when Dean was a kid and he definitely wasn't one anymore, he got out of his seat, and walked over to her.

"Hey," He wrapped his arms around her middle, letting Jo resolutely bury her chin on his shoulder. She wasn't crying anymore - it was not actual crying; just a few tears, he reasoned - and Dean felt more confident, holding her close.

"I don't know why he did that." Jo whispered, softly.

"He was a  _ dick _ , Jo, you deserve better." He let go of her, and kept his hands on her arms like he'd seen people do. It apparently made you feel better. "So much better."

Everyone murmured in agreement, while Jo gave them a small smile. "I'm sorry for ruining family dinner, guys. But I swear, he was so different when we were long-distancing from Ohio."

"You've been personality-catfished." Sam stated matter-of-factly, earning a much-needed snort of laughter from Jo. Dean beamed at Sam. He knew he'd done some things right in raising his size-of-a-car brother.

"Plus, relationship landmarks vary in long-distance. At least six months before he crashes family dinner." Dean added. "For the next time."

"Huh, you know what? I'll keep that in mind." She, for once, gave in to something Dean preached without a protest and Dean was genuinely taken aback. This had probably mattered something to her. "Uh, let's get back to dinner?" She herself suggested.

"We don't need to-" Sam began, coaxingly.

"No, but I want to." She shook her head. Ellen looked at her hesitantly. "Come on, guys. I'm fine. Seriously. I'd like to go back to  dinner. Like things were."

"Jo," Sam didn't sound like he believed her.

"Jo." Ellen definitely didn't sound like she believe her - she'd been keeping quiet. For Jo's sake, obviously, because Dean could very well imagine Ellen shoving bullets into her rifle and stalking after the asshole who walked out on Jo. It had been done, before.

"Mom." Jo pursed her lips. "I'm fine. It's not that big a deal, and can we -"  _ Act like Cole didn't happen?  _ "I don't -"  _ Want to think about it.  _ "Just, please! I'm -"  _ an adult, and I know how to deal with breakups.  _ "Dean -" She turned to look at him, and Dean yet again heard the words unsaid.  _ Get these people off my case.  _

"She says she's  _ okay _ , Ellen," Dean said, stepping in. "Drop it. Let's get back to dinner, okay?"

Ellen gave him a sharp look, for contradicting her.  _ Don't tell me how to parent my daughter.  _ Followed by a little sigh, and a familiar gesture of muttering both cusses and endearments, towards Dean. "Okay. Okay, everybody, sit down."

Dean leaned towards Jo, who had a grateful look on her face. "You'll do the routine with the beer and the ice-cream, and your people later, right?"

"Yeah, Dean." A little bit of the sarcasm slipped back into her tone. "I'll pour my heart out to my girlfriends, while sitting in a circle on the floor holding hands and sipping beer and stuffing our faces with pounds of ice cream. Like they do in every one of your favorite chick-flicks." Dean gave her a look. "Yeah - I swear." She added, a bit guiltily, and Dean relaxed - willing to forget the unmomentous insult.

Sam cleared his throat, as they all obeyed and sat down, the chair beside Jo empty. "May I suggest a change of setting?" Everyone unanimously agreed. "Ellen, can we eat in front of the TV?"

"I'm  promising not to drop anything on the floor." Dean added, holding up his plate already.

"And I promise to make him clean up when he does." Jo interjected, with such a familiar unaffected grin - that things were better already. Ellen rolled her eyes, and picked up the dish herself.

"Well, you're all full-grown adults, aren't you?"

"Try, 'overgrown'!" Dean whispered in Jo's direction, who grinned broader, and Sam overheard it and gave Dean his practiced and perfected version of the your-jokes-are-not-funny look. 

"You try too hard to hide your height inferiority complex," He bitched in Dean's direction, all prissy frown in place. 

"Sound like a  _ singer _ , Wordy McWordison."

"I'm more essentially a  _ songwriter _ , Dean."

"You create the image of a nomadic hipster with hiking boots and a duffle bag and out-of-season hair when you call yourself a 'songwriter'." Dean smirked. "It's a 'lyricist'. That creates the image of you.  _ You _ , who own real estate across America, are wearing the most shiny pair of Redfoots I ever saw, and, well, still have a duffle bag and out-of-season hair."

Sam seemed to want to argue. But, he instead shrugged like Dean's opinion didn't matter in that effortless way he'd learned to do years back. " _ I  _ get to choose what to call my profession. And you're spilling the sauce. Jerk."

"Bitch." Dean snapped back distractedly, as he tried to rub the mild stain off of the carpet with his socked foot because he was a dick like that. 

"Hey, how does Clint Eastwood sound?" Jo nudged Sam. 

Sam rolled his eyes. "You won't be able to hear the movie over  _ Dean  _ re-enacting every line. Every line, believe me." Dean frowns, because he absolutely  _ doesn't  _ do that. Yeah, he's watched 'Every Which Way But Loose' like a million times, but who hasn't?

"True." She agreed, and finally settled on 'Untouchables'. Another of Dean's favorites. Today's a good day. "This one safe?"

"Dean will stay quiet through it."

"Quietly  _ fangirling _ , right?" Jo teased.

"Oh, absolutely." Sam wickedly glanced at him.

Dean saw Jo shriek in laughter. "Ha ha. You guys are  _ hilarious _ . If you're free next Sunday, I'll go arrange for your Emmys in Comedy."

Sam ignores him, while Jo reacts with sticking out her tongue at him. Everything's fine again. Ellen reminds them that they're still in the middle of dinner, and the rest of the meal is finished with only the movie in the background. Sam pauses the movie to go put his plate in the sink - as if he's not already watched it - and then when Ellen's mad at him for the stain she finally noticed, Dean leaves to put his own plate away, but not before pausing the movie again - because dammit, any number of times is not enough. 

He's returning to the others, when he suddenly smelled pie. It seemed to have wafted through his senses. The aroma of the cherry pie was nearly intoxicating and Dean needed it. Yes, he needed it. And  _ no _ , Dean was not  _ obsessed _ , he merely  _ loved  _ his pie.

He returned to the others, where Jo was saying something about not being able to move an inch with the amount she'd eaten, and interrupted her, because this was his family and he apparently could do that. "Can I have my pie now?"

Ellen shook her head sighing, while Sam glared at him for some sort of etiquette-glitch. He was hungry,  _ dammit _ . Jo straight up laughed in his face, because she seemed to have completely stopped thinking about Cole - good riddance. Nonetheless, Ellen walked into the kitchen to get the dessert, because she was awesome and she loved Dean. Heh.

The moment she was out of the audibility zone, Jo cleared her throat and changed the subject eagerly. She sat up straight, and leaned towards Dean with a glint in her eyes, as Sam seemed as though he knew something Dean didn't. How long had he been gone exactly? 

"So Dean, a little birdie told me you made a new friend?"

A certain blue-eyed man appeared in his head and Dean flushed red at that, while Sam didn't even try to conceal his smirk. Somehow, this felt like a trap, and Dean just waltzed right into it. 

Jo looked a bit confused at Dean's expression. "I was talking about how you found your singer - you'd mentioned you were looking for one! What else, unless -  _ Whoa _ ! is there someone I don't know about?"

Dean cursed internally, because  _ fuck _ , he wasn't ready to talk about Cas now. Sam however ignored Dean's obvious discomfort and mouthed something to Jo that he didn't quite catch. Suddenly, the little birdie might've been a 6'4 moose, he had for a brother.

"Dean, what are you -"

"Ellen!" Dean cut her off, looking profusely at Ellen as a wanted distraction.

Thankfully, she'd brought out the whole pie. Dean tried to forget his worries on the sole fact that the best pie in the world was right in front of him - that usually worked - but No - he was too busy worrying about how he would dodge the topic of Cas. Even pie wasn't enough in this occasion.

Jo gave him a look that said, "I'm not done with you yet." 

Dean didn't like the thought of Jo grilling him about Cas, even if he refused to tell her, she'd find out from his oh-so-trustworthy friends. Better  _ him  _ than Gabriel, who would come up with some elaborate story on how Cas and him met. The story would probably resemble the start of a porno, from what he knew of the guy. 

Then Ellen, noticing the weird silence in the room, said, "What'd I miss?"

Jo was about to say something that would guarantee his demise, so naturally Dean leaped ungracefully to her and clamped her mouth shut. 

"Shut up,  _ you _ ." He hissed, so inarticulately that he heard Jo snicker, as she leaned against his chest.

The words died in her mouth, but Dean saw the wicked glint in her eyes and could practically feel the deviousness radiating off of her cruel mind. If Ellen found out about Cas - well, then the whole story would pour out of the safe folds of Dean's head, in no time. The whole of it meaning - the  _ whole  _ of it. And he couldn't afford to let these people know the hopelessly awkward, ridiculous mess he was. 

He wasn't particularly sure if it made sense for Dean to feel so closeted - pun not intended - about revealing the name of a friend, who was  _ literally  _ nothing more than just that.

Ellen looked between all three of them, arching an eyebrow. "Okay, let's rephrase, what the  _ hell  _ is going on?"

Sam straightened as if on cue, and Dean cursed under his breath.

_ Fuck _ .

In targeting Jo, he had completely forgotten about the traitor which was his brother, and watched in horror as Sam opened his mouth. "Sa-"

"Dean - Cas!" Sam practically yelled before Dean could reach him. "I mean, Dean met someone and he has a friend named Cas and they're really close, and -"

But Dean let out a frustrated groan and launched himself at Sam. Sam yelped, drawing back and jumping off the wrong end of the couch before Dean could reach him - funny for someone the size of a friggin' car to be scared of others, but Sam knew abilities of a pissed-off Dean.

Ellen slowly said, "Friend, huh?" As if she was testing the word out for the first time.

Dean paused, "Yeah." Ellen's raised eyebrows seemed to fall back in place, and under the scrutiny of her disapproving distant frown, Dean let go of Sam and straightened his own t-shirt. He looked at Ellen, cautiously. "But, that's it. It's not important."

"Okay."

"What?" 

"Okay." Ellen pursed her lips, and put her hands on her hips. "I said, okay."

"That's it?" Jo interrupted. 

"What do you expect me to do?" Ellen turned her eyes to Jo. "Yell at him to tell me about this new person? Someone who he clearly wants me to know nothing of? Well, I'm not going to grill any of you about something you don't want to tell me about. It's your business." Her eyes were trained on Jo. Jo cleared her throat uncomfortably, because a weird atmosphere had settled in.

Dean felt guilt hammer through his head, and looked down at his feet. "Ellen, I-"

"Hey,  _ no _ , it's fine, young man." Dean continued to stare at his feet. "It's alright. You don't need to tell me things. That makes no sense - why would you have to? None of you have to tell me things because I don't need to know, right? Jo can deal with her stock of boys herself and live her life independently like I never let her, and you, Dean, can just go on-"

"Mom, that's not-"

"Hey, I mean it, okay? You kids can do your thing. Let's play the movie now, shall we? Get on with it. I'm sure you all have a busy work schedule which family is inter-"

_ Goddammit _ .

Ellen being passive-aggressive meant she was the worst kind of mad at him. The 'family-don't-matter- _ eh _ ?' trope in its full essence. She was clearly upset from the way she was completely avoiding the rest of them.

_ God - fucking - dammit _ .

Sam cleared his throat, awkwardly. "If it helps, I'm neither seeing nor breaking up with anyone at the moment, Ellen. I swear."

"We have a winner for the golden child of the month." Dean snapped.

"And, Mom, I've not been hiding anything from you. You can't still be upset about me taking the pilot test - I know you thought it's dangerous, but it's my  _ dream _ ! And I told you I wasn't definite yet on my decision. I'm going to tell you before I leave."

"I think we have a tie, now." Dean glared, because this was the first he was hearing of this. 

Sam frowned back at him, and at Jo with the same things in her mind. Ellen was still deathly silent, and the jovial setting had disappeared with the ripping of bandages. This was supposed to be a good family night. Instead now, he'd just come across the fact that Jo was becoming a pilot, apparently - not to mention, dating assholes from Ohio - and Ellen was refusing to respond to them. He'd majorly screwed up with the 'not of import' line, and Sam's pointed glares seemed to confirm that. Jo looked defeated and supremely guilty, and like she was reliving the Cole-scene in her head, and Dean couldn't allow that. As much as he couldn't let the night go down the drain. 

"Okay. There's not much of a story." He exhaled heavily, and ran a hand through his hair. "But, it starts with me meeting a guy."

Sam whipped up his head to look at Dean, and Jo had a little bit of a thankful expression and Ellen looked weary - he'd had no idea of the 'pilot' issue, but obviously Ellen was under stress about it; he was supposed to  _ know  _ about things like that - and Dean shifted his weight uncomfortably. 

Let it be known that sacrifices were made for the greater good.

"And his name's Cas -  _ Castiel _ . Castiel  _ Novak _ , I guess. But let's call him Cas, for the sake of brevity, shall we?"

***

The engine roared to life, and Dean switched gears.

"Dean!" He saw Sam jogging up to Baby in his black jacket. "Hey!"

"Hey," Dean cocked his head. "Didn't I, like,  _ just  _ meet you in there?"

"Don't be an idiot." Sam advised, getting into the front without even asking him, which for one, is rude. But Dean tolerates it. Because he's a good brother, that's why. "Can I sleep at your place?"

"You could, but d'you think you'd manage without your night-night tape?" Dean grinned.

"I don't know why you think you're funny."

"Shut up, I'm hilarious."

Sam scoffed, and Dean swerved out of the Harvelle parking spot - and fortunately, there's no blinding media lights which seem to be everywhere when Sam and Dean go out together - and got on the highway. "Hey, about before -"

"I should've known you wanted to sleepover because you wanted to talk about crap." Dean grumbled.

"I  _ need  _ to stay at yours, because Cathy called to tell that there's a bunch of press stalking my street."

"What did you do?"

"I may have had a date with Cara Roberts -"

"'Best Newcomer' Cara Roberts?"

Sam face-palmed. "I really didn't know."

"Were you photographed leaving her apartment barefooted or something?"

"No - worse. She apparently mentioned seeing someone in this interview, and on being pressed, said my name, and someone discovered footage of us in the car together - I swear, those goddamn cameras are everywhere!"

Dean laughed out loud. "In the backseat or the front?"

"How does that matte -  _ Oh _ . That's  _ gross _ , Dean. Gross."

"You're twenty five, you're supposed to know how babies are made."

Sam muttered something under his breath, that sounded a lot like 'jerk'. Dean ignored it, in favor of imagining Sam not even realizing that it was a famous person he was with - because the Winchesters stayed off of magazines - and discovering it from his name in an interview. Dean let out another chuckle. 

"If we're done with this -"

"- no, tell me more -"

"I'm not talking about this." Sam declared. "And, as I was saying before you cut me off, about  _ before -  _ I didn't know, okay?"

"What about?"

"Your situation - with Cas." Sam paused. "I had no idea. And if I'd known that you were feeling this way about it, I would've not brought it up. Or rather, I  _ would've  _ \- but only when it was the two of us. But I really didn't know. It was stupid."

"Is there a 'sorry' in there?" Dean replied, with a tight throat.

"I guess."

Dean nodded, his eyes focused on the road. "It sure was a dick move on your part."

"That's forgiveness, right?"

"Yeah, probably." Dean shrugged, and took the right. "What can I say? You didn't know."

"So," And  _ fuck _ , that's his let's-talk-out-your-feelings voice. "You're really thinking these things, huh?"

"Sam."

"Dean, you know you could just call Crowley and check the status of Cas, right?"

"Sam, just-"

"And you realize that you haven't exactly called him? You've only texted him, and nobody checks their messages everyday, alright?"

"Who doesn't check their messages everyday?"

"For starters, you."

"That - that doesn't count."

"Dean, you know I'm right about this." Sam stated, as if it were so simple as that. "You're letting your low self-esteem - which I  _ still  _ have so many questions about - twist the situation inside your head.  _ You  _ know it's crap."

"How I'm feeling is crap?"

"What -  _ No _ !" Sam looked irritated. "Your head is maneuvering the context for it to seem as though Cas is avoiding you. Whereas he's simply in LA, working as he's told you. And that whole system of how your head disfigures fact to fit into your puzzle of trust-issues is crap."

"You're-" Dean is stumped for a minute. "You're crap. Now, shut up."

"That's not even a good comeback."

"I'm warning you, my spare bed is only open to people who shut up when they're told to."

Sam makes an amused noise, and disguises it with a cough as Dean squints at him. There's silence for a minute, as Dean tried hard to process all the sheer information Sam gave him. 

"Also, Dean, I think Cas-"

Dean turns up the volume. And soon, music drains out Sam's voice, making him shut up.

"Real mature of you."

Dean absolutely doesn't repeat Sam's dialogues then onwards, in an infuriating manner that makes Sam completely mad. Because that wouldn't be very adult-ish.

***

Right before Sam leaves for bed, he turns to Dean with a serious expression on his face. "Also," he begins. "Thanks for not asking, but the thing I told you about? The feeling that I was going to write a song? That - that  _ feeling _ ?" Dean straightens from where he'd been lying with the laptop balancing on his stomach, with a concerned look, because things like that scare the crap out of Sam. "It's gone away."

"Seriously?"

Sam's expression falters for a fraction of a second, but Dean is kind of occupied with pausing the song to see it. His words contradict it. "Yeah, seriously. False alarm, I guess." He grins.

There's this weight which Dean didn't know he'd been carrying, which is shed.

"Awesome. Glad it passed. You're okay, now?"

"I was ' _ okay _ ', then too."

Dean knows that's far from the truth. Because he's seen Sam have those complete breakdowns. Those not-a-single-word-said not-a-thing-eaten breakdowns, which were so frequent. Which terrified the crap out of Dean, but he couldn't tell Sam, because then his brother would just stop telling him and then Dean would have to be worried eternally and Sam would have to deal with Hell alone, and it'd be all kinds of wrong.

"G'night, Sammy."

Sam ignores it, for once.

"And, hey?"

"What?"

"Don't make a habit of this." Dean cheekily grins, because he  _ has  _ to. "I'm glad the thing which you thought would happen, didn't happen, but you still have to write songs, okay? Still a songwriter for a living."

"Yeah, okay." Sam tsked, and begun to walk out of the room. Dean lay down on his couch again, and made himself comfortable with brain-clearing music. 

But, he breaks the trance, to yell and point out to his brother. "I called you a 'songwriter'!"

"I heard you!"

***

Dean is tempted to call Crowley.

Instead, he gets his guitar after a really long time, and spends his time rehearsing, because he suddenly can't sleep at all.

***

Not too long after that, his phone rings.

"Yeah?" He mumbles into the receiver distractedly, because he's actually enjoying himself, and disturbances are welcome.

"Dean?" 

And,  _ fuck _ .

"Cas?"

There's a bit of a pause, and on the other end, Cas breathes out. And then, with that familiar _fucking_ accent, and that gravelly voice that makes Dean close his eyes and smile upon, he says, "Hello, Dean."

***

Cas has to hang up soon - because of some reason Dean didn't pay attention to - so they cover all the bases in a hurry - did Cas' work get done, is he back, how is Dean doing - and then Cas takes his sweet time drawing it out to an end.

"I have to hang up now," He actually sounds like he's upset because of that, and Dean has to cough, to keep the overflowing thoughts in rein. "I don't know if it was wise to call you like this. Perhaps I should've followed our schedule, and called at nine. But I - I wanted to. Is that okay?"

Something inside Dean absolutely doesn't melt. It absolutely isn't his heart.

"It's okay."  _ Thanks for calling - I feel like I’m not the worst company ever, again.  _ "Completely okay."

"This is awkward, considering you're probably unaffected, but I'm sorry."

Dean's silent.

Because he doesn't know what to say.

"For my benefit, can you respond to that?" Cas sounds like he's smiling now.

"You don't seem to realize something, Cas. When you show up at my house regularly for a fortnight, and spend these amazing mornings with me, and then just  _ stop -  _ showing up, one fine morning, a guy's going to fucking  _ notice _ . Okay? So, stop acting as though your disappearance didn't even strike me, because I was bothered and I have every right to be too, so that's that. It's not your fault, so  _ whatever.  _ You can have your 'it's okay' wrapped like a Christmas present, but keep that in mind the next time."

"I missed you," Is his curt response to that, and Dean is completely floored by it. Until like the bastard that he is, he adds, " _ Too _ ."

It's too fucking mushy for Dean's head. 

It feels like he's going to burst.

Cas makes him feel like he's on a fucking timer, to explode with just the  _ rush  _ of feelings he makes him feel, which Dean isn't even going to  _ try  _ to fucking address. And it's so unfair.

"Shut up," he almost chokes out.

"Am I still invited to your house tomorrow?"

"If you want."

"And I forgot to tell you, Dean. I bought a dartboard for us."

It's too much.

Dean's off his head. He doesn't know the things he's saying. "You better be here at ten tomorrow  _ with  _ it, Cas. I'm not even going to fucking wait for your call - I'll call you myself. I'm telling you, I'll literally call until you-"

"I'll come whether or not you call."

***

He doesn't even set a record for the night, like he usually does. His insides cloud all reality, anyways. He's just the right combination of awed, stumped, and fucking  _ terrified _ .

It's becoming too easy, almost. Cas is making it too easy to -

He doesn't have the guts to even think it.

But that's all he's thinking about.

***

All things considered, it's been a pretty good day for him.

 

  
  



	6. "Well, if you ask nicely, I'll buy seven tuxes to see me through our morning meetings."

"Ready? Charlie, you wait this one out. Dean, let's start with you."

"From the top? Okay." Dean cleared his throat, and fiddled with the guitar pick for a fleeting moment, as he composed himself to sing. His head worked in mysterious ways - while he might freak out because of a moment too much to staring at Cas in his living room, he felt perfectly at ease with a room full of the people who he always worked with before any major event, and Charlie, seated on varying sizes of couches around the larger studio at Singer Music. Dean was in a black v-neck and a worn pair of jeans, and in a reasonably good mood, because he was doing what he loved. Everyone around him was looking at him in anticipation, and Dean was going to deliver what Jody had instructed him to, because this was something he'd always loved doing. He felt akin to it, and knew the lyrics like the back of his hand. It was one of his favorites, from back in the day, road-tripping with John across the states. Simple Man, by Lynyrd Skynyrd.

_Mama told me, when I was young_

_"Said sit beside me, my only son_

_And listen closely, to what I say_

_And if you do this, it will help you some sunny day" Oh yeah,_

 

Dean closed his eyes, somewhere in between, but he reopened them and surveyed the room for reactions. He knew his voice had kind of cracked on the 'yeah', but he felt he'd done justice to most of it. Most of them had encouraging smiles on their faces - Jody looked satisfied - and Ash looked like he was itching to be on the drums. Since it was the first proper practice, they'd decided to do without the rest of the orchestra. Dean enjoyed accompanying himself. His eyes almost started at Charlie, who had a taken aback expression, as she blinked at him. Dean smiled a little, allowing himself just a smidge of pride. He felt the song reclaim him, and his fingers strummed into the next verse.

_"Oh take your time, don't live too fast_

_Troubles will come, and they will pass_

_You'll find a woman, and you'll find love_

_And don't forget that, there is someone up above"_

 

Dean only paused for a beat, to take a breath, and launched into the cross-lines, letting himself go.

 

" _And be a simple kind of man_

_Hm, be something you love and understand_

_Baby be a simple kind of man_

_Oh, won't you do this for me son, if you can, if you can"_

Dean regretted the moment of forgetting that he was not on the stage, and that it was a closed area, as he sang out the last words. He was interrupted by a sudden gasp from his side, and he turned his attention on Charlie, for she looked pale. "Hey?"

"Oh," She squeaked, when all of the members in the room had been staring at her for a good ten seconds. "I'm sorry! It's just - _Dean_ . That was _so_ \- just - _that_ was _\- Dean, that's so good!_ "

Dean let out a snort, and rolled his eyes, because it wasn't. He can hear Crowley snicker from the side. "Dammit, Charlie, _that's_ what you cut me for?" He scrubbed his face with his hand, but can't manage to look as offended as he tries to seem, because he's getting fuzzy in his chest.

"I'm - I'm so sorry, you guys," She instantly switches to apologetic, and stutters out her words. It's the first time Dean's seen her lose her calm, so entirely. "I didn't mean to - but that was _perfect!_ "

Jody chuckled. "Charlie, this is the _first_ practice." She is closest to Charlie, and squeezes her shoulder. "It's not perfect, _yet_. But what it definitely is, is a damn amazing start. Dean, she's right. That was very good. You communicated the emotions really well, and you just sorta choreographed a few parts different, but it sounded just natural."

Dean resisted the urge to hide his face in the cushions, because this is not the kind of praise he was expecting - Jody is the kind of person who saves the praise for the moment before stage, when you're freaking out. Instead, he queries, "I wanted to ask, really, is me doing that fine?"

"The big guys already a-okayed that when I suggested your name." Crowley, there as the representative of MSA, answered. Dean nodded, and turned to Bobby.

"I think I'm gonna play this one onstage too, if that's okay with you guys." He said, because the people he works with are people who give him freedom of setting and adjustments. It's one of the reasons he loves working with Bobby.

"You betcha," Donna cuts in - she's Jody's second-in-command, for all intents and purposes, and comes to most practices because she wants to. She likes Dean, so that's fine. "Though, you won't mind there being other bass-players in the back, right?"

"Obviously, that's wise." Bobby answered for Dean, exchanging a glance with him. "Never again let there be the possibility of the instrument going mute, because an idjit got too lost singing."

"That was _one_ time!" Dean argued, turning red, as Crowley from the corner chortled, sounding mostly amused and hardly snickering.

"That's actually something that happened?" Crowley directed at Bobby, who ignores him because in Bobby Singer's World, he's the only one allowed to take shots at Dean.

"One time's more than enough," Bobby grumbled back, not unkindly. "If the audience weren't too distracted by you, that'd have been the last performance of your career."

"You're too hard on him," Jody cut him off, and Dean's surprised of the interruption. "That's not gonna happen. But Dean, I'd like to hear the rest of the song. I'm keen to see the rest of your variations to the rhythm. 'Specially the last paragraph."

"Uh, yeah. Sure thing." Dean cleared his throat again, and is meaning to get started again, when Ash, the producer-tech-guy who's too good at his craft and has been promoted to these sessions for his expert opinions, raises his hand for permission to speak. That's a rule no one invented.

"I'm thinking, bring it down a bit." He said, in his half-attentive manner.

"I thought the tempo was just fine." Donna commented. "Maybe, you could go it slower in the first stanza, pick it up a bit in the second, so that it's kind of a build-up to the climax in the third, huh?"

"I meant, the volume."

"Yeah, I got it." Dean bit his lip. "I will, Ash. Sorry 'bout your ears, guys."

"Just try to keep yourself grounded," Jody advised. "Audiences are all about the emotions peeling off of your body mechanisms, but we're not an audience here. We're all here to help you rehearse, okay?"

"I think you're not paying enough attention to how great Dean was, except all of that." Charlie muttered, under her breath, almost.

"Try not to get starstruck this time, Bradbury." Crowley added, from the corner, and Dean scoffs because Charlie couldn't have gotten starstruck, because Dean didn't count as one, right? I mean, that was -   _so_ ridiculous.

"You guys mind if I take it from the cross-lines?"

"Not at all."

And, Dean resumes, unable to help the light smile tugging at his lips, and this time he remembers where he is, and tries to follow Donna's instructions about tempo. Jody - and Bobby - look kinda impressed, so that's that.

***

Dean and Cas's morning plans had begun to stretch out, to cover most afternoons Dean wasn't working. Dean didn't mind in the least. It was the best feeling to touch base after a spirited mornings' session, and not to be alone, at home. In a weird sense Dean wasn't willing to acknowledge, it had starting to be more fun to re-watch movies in the middle of the day, with Castiel stoically eating his popcorn and licorice beside him - both of them gravitating towards the middle of the sofa, as days passed - than to be out at celebrity parties which Dean always found a bit too much of efforts, and for the first time in this stage of his comfortably settled career, could afford to not attend.

As if that were not enough; in Cas, Dean had found the listener he'd never imagined he needed. He never thought he had things to tell, but frankly, Dean's life had been the weird kind of spirally roller-coaster. Of course, he'd lucked out and gotten himself great friends these last few years. Sam, too, had always been there. But it wasn't the same thing, because Sam had always been Dean's kid-brother, and the others were just the kind of people Dean could talk to about his deeply unsettling head-canons during Star Wars, or embarrassing drunk encounters.

Okay, Dean was probably being insensitive. He _could_ talk to them about all of the stories that resided in Dean Winchester's messy top-bunk, but he didn't want to. He didn't feel like it. Maybe because it was awkward. Or maybe, because Dean never got the feeling that they'd want to listen.

With Cas, it was different. Castiel would urge him to tell him these stories. It didn't feel as though he were dumping on him, the weights on his chest - mostly, at least. It was as though the latter actually wanted to hear those things, and Dean didn't feel half as bad sharing the little things that'd never been of enough import to pay attention to, but felt nice to tell someone. Dean actually enjoyed it a lot. Cas would share stories from his childhood too, which never ceased to amaze Dean. Cas always had questions. He never forced Dean to want to shift the topic just because they were approaching some raw nerve - like John Winchester. Dean still did, obviously, but that was not Cas's fault, it was his and his terrific parent's.

They talked more about him than they did about Cas, but Cas didn't seem to mind, and Dean never realized it, in the moment. They talked more of the past, than of the present, and very little of the future - in a world which survives off of thinking a second in advance.

In lesser words and poetic expressions, Dean Winchester enjoyed being with Cas. Like, a lot.

***

"And then?"

"I already mentioned that it was one of Dad's nights out, right? So, we could actually go out, and celebrate. At this round-the-corner diner. Then, some of the best burgers, off of Dad's grill. Kind of a tradition. Sammy's first girlfriend, and all that." Dean squints at the ceiling, because he's lying on his back on the sofa - why, he doesn't remember - as he reminisces.

"You're smiling a lot right now." Cas pointed out, and Dean stops smiling out of spite, and Cas smiles now, sitting up, because he's eating another slice of the pizza. That's a good angle for him. "Although, you seem to have made a habit of dismissing your personal feats as filler. Those must also have been a cause to celebrate."

Dean frowns, not really meaning it, because he's in a damned good mood. "So? I made some stuff for school. Not the point of the story."

"Making a mantelpiece clock after a month of woodworking class at high-school _is_ a big deal, Dean." Cas returns, from around his slice. Damn, it looks delicious. "If it isn't, your high-school must've really reputable experts as faculty for your lectures."

"You seem to have made a habit of sounding exceedingly English."

"My mistake; I thought we were speaking English, Dean." Castiel deadpans, because he's like that, and Dean swats at him in response, because apparently he's sitting close enough to Dean's head for him to be able to knock Cas's pizza straight out of his hands into the crate.

"English, as in 'of England'."

Cas shrugs, apparently not in the mood of pointlessly arguing that he was Russian.

"What do _you_ sound like, then, Dean?"

Dean is growing to increasingly love the way his name sounds when Cas says it.

"All sorts of awesome." Dean replies, absentmindedly. "And no dodging now, Cas, you're telling me more about cricket. You all but dropped it and ran like Cinderella when Crowley called you, the other day. I want to know more."

"Of course." Cas smiles so bright, that Dean smiles back, instinctively. "Given how little you know about one of the greatest sports of literally everywhere but the United States for some reason, Dean, it's like teaching a Muggle about Quidditch."

"It keeps me up at nights how someone who seems as awesome as you is such a nerd."

"Maybe the reason I'm awesome, is because I'm a nerd. Does that resolve your sleeping issues?"

***

 

"You'll do fine, believe me." Dean whispers against Charlie's head, as she pushes further into the hug, reminding Dean of Sam, before his first stage performance. It's the second day of formal practice, and the first had kind of been focused on Dean, so this one starts off with Charlie. Who did the most obvious thing to do, when the entire room was staring at her, to get her to sing - she apologized and rushed out the door. Of fucking course, Dean followed her.

"Everyone there has so much experience, and they're all so amazing, and _you're_ so great and famous and such a good singer, and Dean, _I_ am not made to work with you guys-"

"You are." Dean cuts her off, firmer. "Take my word for it. Okay? Everyone there is a friendly face, believe me. And this is only your second time. There's gonna be a million more practices, and by the time you're on stage, you're gonna be so sure of yourself-"

"What if they decide to go with someone else because they think I _can't_ get better?"

Dean sighs. "They're not gonna do that. I'm sure of that, because you're a good singer, and they're already in love with you. We kinda all have made up our minds about you, and you're stuck with us. You hear me?"

"Yeah." It seems as though she's easing her shoulders a bit.

"Plus, now you know too much. You've been to where the magic happens. It's too much of a risk to let you go, now." Dean dramatizes, and it seems as though exactly what she needed, because she instantly pulls away, rolling her eyes and smiling at the same time.

"This is going to be fine." Charlie repeats, like Dean's been telling her over and over.

"Damn straight," Dean promises, before nudging her in the direction of the studio. Charlie walks, resolutely if a bit nervous, and Dean follows her into the room full of people. Bobby, Jody, Donna, Ash and Crowley all look at Charlie at the same time, and then at Dean, because Charlie had freaked out the last time everyone's attention was focused on her, waiting for her to sing. Dean gives them a thumbs-up behind Charlie.

"Knock us out, Red." Dean says loudly, and Charlie blinks at him, with a nod, before composing herself, and launching into the song's second portion.

_"An' get your lust from the rich man's gold_

_All that you need now, is in your soul_

_And you can do this, oh baby, if you try_

_All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied"_

It is so different hearing it from Charlie, because Dean has always been a believer of the concept that the singer alters the song to their own will, willingly or not. But it sounds great, and Dean's big-brother instincts kick in at kind of an awkward time as he beams at her mid-stanza, and almost makes her lose her cue to start. At least, she looks way more confident.

***

"And then?"

"Then, my mother got a call from my English professor, as he'd threatened to do. She was predictably furious." Castiel has a thoughtful look on his face. "Anyone who knew her would know that my mother would be raging at the mere thought of hearing complaints regarding her son from his teachers! My friends was already betting on how many days I'd be 'grounded' for. None of them guessed correctly. It was twelve weeks. That, for Naomi Ziev, meant completely cutting off my connection to the world. She'd lock me in my room for all the time when I wasn't in my classes, and confiscate my diary solely because she knew how much I enjoyed doing that. She implied, that it meant that I'd lost my privileges of - of expression, singularity, and sloth."

Cas speaks of it, like it's something he hasn't spoken of much, but has definitely given it much thought.

Sitting next to him, Dean studies his friend. The quirk of the lip, that's just always there, has been replaced by a similar minute frown; his eyes turned towards his lap, and his hands put forward on the couch between them. In a compelling moment, the vile thought of holding them in his comes forth, but he pushes it aside with much indignation. Cas is a pensive picture throughout, breathing quietly but seeming to be pushing it down the surface than letting it rise. Another defying concept strikes him. He'd always been good-looking to Dean - an unfair lot, to be sure - but at the moment, he's the most beautiful man Dean has ever seen; as he ponders over his own words with a diplomatic expression which is so harshly unreadable, and _all_ Cas. It's a strange thing to think, Dean shouts at himself, realizing in the same instant, that perhaps Cas waited for a response.

"All of those - not privileges. That's all kinds of messed up." Dean says, quietly.

"Now, I know."

"Jesus, Cas," Dean bites his lip, because Cas looks so distinctly saddened by this line of thought. "What did she even expect you to do, all by yourself?"

"Contemplate over my aberrations , and strive to achieve conscientious redemption, I'd say." He smiles a little, and it seems glorious after the grey mood that'd settled in.

"And, what would you do, instead?"

There's a flicker of a smile. "I'd hide some of my favorite pieces of literature in my sock drawer, before I did the things I was aware would make her furious."

"Little rebel." Dean smirks.

"I wish." Cas meets Dean's gaze, and there's a lot to be told there, but Cas speaks soft and slow, like it's something he wants to share, but really shouldn't. "I'm not proud of it, but defying her no-books rule was about the farthest I went, rebelling. I told you about college; her choices governed my life for longer than they should've."

"It sounds bad, Cas. Shouldn't have been that way. There's a reason nobody likes helicopter parents." Dean remarks, because the topic suddenly got too serious, and not anymore about Cas' sonuvabitch teacher. "Or Frank Gallagher, for that matter."

Cas stares at him, searchingly. "You know, I have no idea who that is."

"If I need to show you every film and series I'm gonna quote, which seems a lot like what's gonna be the case; you've gotta give me more hours in a day." Dean challenges, while Cas practices his most-innocent blinking-eyes-routine on him, until Dean scoffs because Cas simply nods, and shrugs.

"Anyhow, when my 'grounding' finally ended, in an effort to get back at Marv, I introduced him as the antagonist in an assignment he himself gave us to do - if I remember clearly, his words were to write a short-story about an unconventional villain. The character I based on him was a grouchy struggling writer-angel, who's bitter and alone enough to make everyone's lives a mess to feel better about being a failure and meaning nothing to the hierarchy of good angels and God. He was named 'Metatron', so the Principal could do nothing about his claim that I'd insulted him, because his name was Marv, after all." Cas pauses, and Dean's only waiting for him to finish. "I got extra credit, for it from another English teacher who wasn't half bad."

Dean's laughing before he can think of it. "Now, _that's_ free will!"

***

"You have to go, Dean." Tessa declared. "You don't get to say 'no'."

"You don't understand," Dean complained, leaning back on his chair, sitting opposite Tessa, the receptionist, in the waiting room of Singer Music, to grumble about Bobby to someone who'd listen. He wasn't getting any sympathy, but then he'd probably chosen the wrong person to share his troubles with. "Talk shows _suck_. And, more importantly, I suck at them."

"I'm not saying, you don't. But you're still going to have to go," Tessa repeated, grinning.

"That's it, I don't have to! I've already been trying to convince Bobby that I shouldn't, and if you tell him that you think that I'll mess things up, he won't force me to go. Please, Tess," Dean pulled on his most charming smile. "Put in a bad word for me, and I'll owe you one."

"Well, I'm not gonna do that, and you owe me many." Tessa crossed her arms across her chest, a hint of a smile on her face. "Why are you so worried anyway?"

Dean drew in a breath. "Because, _questions_. And because, I won't know the right answers."

"You do know this is not 'The Price Is Right' Bobby's talking about, right? It's just 'The Ketch Davies Show'! You'll walk in, sit on the guest's sofa for about fifteen minutes, and then they cheer you goodbye, and bring in the next guest of the evening!" Tessa rolled her eyes at him, and Dean frowned. "You're worrying too much for no reason. You've just got to smile your way through dodgy vague answers, and then drive back home with a beautiful gift-basket, which you are more than welcome to drop off at my desk."

Dean sighed. Tessa was always this way. But it wasn't fair. Dean Winchester's bad with words - ask him to sing, and he'll happily oblige, but who cares about his views on Instagram-hashtags and love?

This is not his first talk show. He remembers a time, he actually enjoyed doing them. They seemed like an achievement - the first time Sam was called on one, Dean grilled burgers and made pies, and celebrated away from John Winchester by himself. They were also all kinds of exciting. But now, he knew exactly what questions they were going to ask. They were hardly interested in his music - rarely so. They'd ask him about his personal life, and Dean would have nothing to say.

This was his first talk-show after Lisa.

This was his first talk-show _since_ Cas.

Tessa spoke again, "Wait, are you nervous about how you'll _look_ on television-"

Dean glared at her, his best offended look in place. "As if! The camera loves me! You want me to show you the cover of “On The Road”, again?" Tessa cringed instinctively, because that was Dean's favorite of all of his album covers, and he looked like a handsome son of a bitch, alright.

"Yeah, but your lover, the camera might not be too crazy about your estranged relationship with your gym." Tessa reminded him, and Dean frowns deeper. Tessa immediately added, with a laugh. "You want me to look into celebrity gyms at Soho, since you can't go to your old one anymore, hotshot?"

"Hey, I'll go to the old one, if you want me to," Dean grinned, remembering. "Just you manage to get rid of, uh, both of those personal trainers. Last Christmas got _wild_. And you know, I've always had a strict No-being-personally-trained-by-a-hookup rule."

"That's gross." Tessa scrunched her nose, catching his drift. "And, won't the No-hooking-up-with-personal-trainers make everything easier?"

"I'm _charming_ , is what I am." Dean grinned broader, mentally making a plan to put in 'gym' back into his schedule. "And, that sounds a lot less fun."

Tessa is about to return some sarcastic comment about how Dean's not charming, but stops speaking when the glass doors open to let the three women enter at once. Tessa hung around Dean like they were friends, when they were alone - they'd always had that kind of relationship since their first-meeting-hookup. But when there were 'work-folks' around, she liked to keep things professional. She didn't call Dean 'Mr. Winchester', or - Hell, no - 'Sir', but she behaved like a receptionist - not what she actually was, most of Bobby's PR-manager, and scheduler, and all of those over-important sounding professions, which people sitting in prissy, frosted-glass offices belong to.

The reason Dean was lazing around the reception desk, except to annoy Tessa and bitch about talk-shows., was that he'd come early to practice - because Cas had gotten a call from Crowley and had to leave. Dean had tried asking what for, but had received short and unclear answers which he would've loved to bug Cas for, if he weren't such a pushover against Cas' insistent blue determination. The rest of them were going to be there in a while; even Bobby was out. Obviously, Jody and Donna are the first. They nod in acknowledgement at Dean, and then at Tessa, before moving inwards to the group-studio, deep in conversation. Charlie follows, looking excited, as she walks straight towards Dean.

"Why're you here so early?" She asked, outright.

"I do what I want," Dean replied, because he knew it'd get him a laugh from Charlie, and he's not wrong.

"He came in early to get me to side with him on the talk-show-or-no-talk-show vote." Tessa commented, looking down at her files. Which are always there for whenever she wants to duck out of a conversation targeting him.

Charlie looked at Dean, her eyes shining, almost. "I _heard_ of the talk show, Dean! Isn't it mind-friggin'-blowing?"

Dean cocked his head. "It is?"

"Yeah!" She took back a step. "I know this isn't your first time on something so awesome, but it's _mine_ ! Well, indirectly, but believe me it _counts_!" She looks exhilarated.

Dean suddenly remembered. One of the main reasons Bobby was fixed upon Dean attending, was because of Charlie! Dean would introduce her to America for the first time, and in Tessa's words, start to build the hype around their co-performance in Illinois, before the _actual_ deal at MSA.

Charlie stared at him with widened eyes, as though waiting for an answer, like a high-on-sugar collie. Which is usually what he uses to describe Gabriel, but it's accurate, so that's that.

"Totally counts," He muttered, grinning down at her.

"I know, right?" She chuckled. "Now, you coming in or what? I'm excited about practice today! Would you believe it? I did all of the things Google said I should do for my voice as an aspiring singer!"

"Invincible now, Red." Dean deadpanned.

"Not everyone can roll out of bed and parade up and down the scales and octaves, or serenade the room with 'Crazy Love' after a breakfast of cheeseburgers." Charlie scowled, at him.

"They can't?" Dean smirked, as he smirked at Tessa, who rolled her eyes back, and followed Charlie towards the studio.

"Afternoon, idjits," Bobby declared, showing up suddenly. He looked like he was coming back from some sort of work-thing, but Bobby Singer worked too much for Dean to keep track of all of it or even try. "It's practice, so quit chattering. Dean, take the guitar; Jody wants to hear Simple Man once more - she has a change to make - before we can put it on the shelf and move to the second song. Charlie, I want you in Studio 2, getting started on Crazy Love, with Ash. Dean'll join you after he's done."

"Yes, sir." Dean mock-saluted, walking in towards his guitar.

***

"And then?"

"Well, I was obviously freaked! I mean, just imagine what we were seeing, Cas! Me and Sam, walking into this typical small-town diner for my snack and Sam's rabbit-food, and we come across this band of cosplayers - dressed as _our_ stupid friends! I mean, first of all, you cosplay as Luke Skywalker, or Batman, or some shit! You don't cosplay as a band, unless it's something as terrific as The Beatles or Led Zeppelin! But you certainly don't cosplay as 'Charlie's Choir'!"

Dean watched with pride, as Cas threw his head back and laughed blithely. "What were they like?" He managed, between snorts of laughter.

"That's the deal! They were all made up like those jackasses! An blond _girl_ playing Gabriel with his beige stage-jacket, and this pre-teen guy playing Balthazar and wearing a kid-guitar with a pink strap!" Dean grinned widely. "One of the best days of my life, that."

"It must've been striking!" Cas resumed enough, to respond. "What are the odds, even? Though, imagine if you ever came across someone cosplaying as _you_! What would that be like?"

"Well, they wouldn't have much material, because I'm not those idiots. I don't always stick to a beige jacket for stage, or have a signature pink guitar." Dean frowned, because Cas actually had a thoughtful look on his face, as though he were picturing what he wondered aloud. "Stop imagining it, Cas!"

Cas, bastard that he was prone to be, ignored him; smiling smugly. "Think of this, Dean. Someone could rent a Chevrolet Impala 1967, and buy themselves a souvenir amulet, like you wear all the time, and maybe even put on an entirely-plaid ensemble. It's a nice imagery, you've got to agree."

Dean frowned deeper. "I don't wear plaid all the time on stage."

"Of course not." Cas lifted his eyes to meet Dean's, with a sarcastic deadpan. "It's _me_ who shops from Mountain Hardware outlets."

"No, _you_ shop at 'Hot Topical', right?" Dean smirked, trying to get the upper hand, as he referred to Cas' major fail, a few days back.

"Nice try, but we're talking about you right now." Cas dodged easily, before redrawing the smirk, which made his lips curl, and look like what Dean _really_ shouldn't be thinking about. "At least I don't look like a lumberjack."

"Well, if you ask nicely, I'll buy seven tuxes to see me through our morning meetings." Dean threw back.

"I never said I mind it, Dean. I have nothing against lumberjacks." Cas smiled, softly, straightening a bit. And dammit, Dean could pinpoint the exact moment he forgot how to breathe. "I was just pointing it out. You should wear whatever makes you feel comfortable on stage. You're a singer -"

"- yeah, not a model." Dean was able to add.

Cas took his time, to widen his smile. "Exactly. In any case, you look _just_ fine in checks. You've mastered the art of being able to pull anything off."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. But he hurriedly resumed stance, biting his lip. It wasn't allowed for him to get weird over a innuendo - that was practically the only language Balthazar and Gabriel spoke.

"You sneaky bastard, Cas."

"Pun unintended, Dean." Cas stared back at him, and Dean could have frozen right there. "I promise."

"Uh, yeah. Okay." Dean clears his throat, lamely. Of course, his perverted brain would leap at the offhand opportunity to be a perverted dickhead. Of fucking course, Cas didn't mean it. Cool it. Dean scrubbed his face with his hand, looking tentatively at the ground.

There was a silence, that seemed to linger but one moment.

"The cosplayers could also learn to copy your habits and mannerisms." Cas piped up all of a sudden. "You know, body mechanisms." Because apparently, that topic hadn't ended yet. Dean groaned.

"You're gonna now point out weird stuff I do without thinking?" Dean dropped his chin on his palm.

Castiel pinched his eyebrows together, looking smug. "I'd rather not."

"Huh?"

"Well, it's enjoyable to see you in your element, doing all of these things unconsciously. If I bring your attention to them, you're going to mindfully try to avoid them - because you're like that, Dean. And I'd hate to be the one who makes you change those little things about yourself, that make you who you are." Castiel ended, with a look so sincere that it's strange that they were exchanging jokes about clothing choices, barely five minutes ago.

"Get me worked up, and now you plan to leave me high and dry, huh?" Dean replied - stuttering through his sentence, because he couldn't exactly conjure up an appropriate response to Castiel's little monologue. Who talks like that? Who even fucking says those things? To _Dean_?

"Don't worry, I'm not the kind of guy who's all about his own needs." Castiel shrugged, coolly.

And, Dean suddenly has a coughing fit, because _goddammit_ , that was awesome. " _Did_ you just-"

"It is pretty easy to infer innuendo from an innocent remark." Cas smirks even more triumphantly, because Dean's still trying to get his breathing back to normal. "If you pay attention to the words."

"Sneaky bastard."

"Now, since I meant what I said, some of the little things you do," Cas cocked his head, looking down at Dean. "You tend to use cuss-words as replacements for comebacks, touch your face when you're embarrassed, and slump your shoulders into your frame with an intensity proportional to the tone of the conversation."

Dean thought of them all, reemerging annoyed.

"I don't do any of that-"

"I daresay I'm more likely to have noticed, since I'm the one who gets to look at you when you do these things."

"Shut up, jackass." Dean rolled his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck.

Cas smiled, suddenly. "And, I almost forgot - You also look like you're puckering your lips, a lot of the time."

Dean glares at him. "You're out of your mind."

"No, not the kind of puckering you're assuming." Cas explained, as though it were a subject he knew things about. Dean couldn't believe his ears. "Not as if you're going in for a kiss, but as if you're sucking your cheeks in and attempting to achieve-."

"I don't do that!" Dean drew back, agitated.

Cas - fucking _smirking_ Cas - raised his eyebrows, calling Dean out.

"Well, several of your fans attribute it to the alignment of your cheekbones. And rest assured, it's very becoming." He managed to slip in a smirk in there.

"You're-" Dean paused mid-sentence. "How do you know about what 'my fans' attribute whatever to?"

"I came across a fan-blog the other day." Cas replied, simply. "One thing led to another. You're unbelievably popular on 'Tumblr', for one. Did you know your face very closely fits to Da Vinci's idea of physical perfection?"

Dean is speechless.

"You're a weird kind of guy." He scrubbed his face with one hand, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Fucking weird."

"There, you're doing the lips again."

"That's just how I look!"

***

Dean walked out of a particularly tiring practice session, with Charlie. They'd been working on 'Crazy Love', for about four days now. Making progress - sure, but still not there yet. For some reason, it was not quite _there_ yet. Those are the only words Dean can use to describe the situation. Not there. Yet.

Of course, today's not Dean's day to mope around his apartment with a guitar and sit on every surface that'll hold all of his 180 pounds and try to work out what's wrong. Today's the day Benny has been texting him regularly about - and Benny's not the kinda guy who texts for no reason.

"What are you doing after practice today, Dean?" Charlie turned to him, interrupting his flow.

"My secret overnight desk-job. I thought you knew."

"Very funny. Look, the Ketch-Davies Show is a big deal, Dean!" Charlie beamed, her red hair bouncing. "I can't believe you're gonna be on it-"

"Yeah, why would they want someone like me?"

"Because you're Dean Winchester, that's why. And, not what I meant. But, seriously, if you're not doing anything much, maybe we can hang out at mine! Order in from someplace nice, and work something out to have fun!"

"That sounds like an invitation for a sleepover." Dean stifled a laugh.

"Yeah, right. Because we're eleven year old girls in middle-school with celebrity-crushes."Charlie smiled her way through the sarcasm. "You could drive back to Casa de Winchester, if it bugs you too much to stay over, without calling it a 'pajama party'."

"You're smiling way too much, to not have ulterior motives," Dean grinned. "Are you trying to trick me into extra-practice?"

"Not if my life depended on it. But, I may actually have an idea of what we could do."

"And?"

"I was just thinking," Charlie said in a way, that showed that she wasn't 'just thinking', but had thought very properly about it. "We could binge-watch the Ketch-Davies show's previous episodes, and then you could show me what you've prepped for yours, and we can do mock-trials."

"I don't prep, I'm Batman."

"Yeah, you are." Charlie rolled her eyes. "You in?"

"As fun as _that_ sounds, I do have plans." Dean raised his eyebrows, apologetically, just remembering. "Me and Benny are taking Vic out to celebrate his album! But you know what, maybe later. Maybe also skip the talk-show-marathoning and the Miss-Congeniality-roleplay,  but let's go out sometime, again." Not at that bar from before, Dean silently added. That was one of his worst nights to date. Okay, no, not even close - but he's allowed to say so.

"You lost me." She blinked. "Victor Henriksen?"

"Yeah, and Benny Lafitte." Interjected Crowley's voice, and the both of them turned. He added, to Charlie. "He's the kind of famous that shows it off without meaning to, isn't he?"

Charlie snorted, in agreement, turning to Dean. "Next you'll tell me, Bieber will be there too."

"Nah, I don't fraternize with my brother's enemies. That's the worst form of betrayal."

"Sam Winchester, over him any day." Charlie agreed, still looking a bit taken aback from the names flying around. Dean hadn't meant for that to happen.

"So, everyone will say, in front of Moose's brother," Crowley threw in, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Crowley here wouldn't know what that kind of loyalty is, you see, because back in highschool," Dean began. "This backstabbing jackass switched sides several times. He pretty much shuttled back and forth between what's-her-name and what's-his-face."

"That Dick Roman, and that crazy bitch, Abaddon." Crowley directed at him, with distaste.

Charlie looked, interestedly, at Dean. "What happened?"

"She doesn't need to know." Crowley cut him off shortly, persisting to badmouth the two. "Such jackasses, though, both of them. What's up with their _names_ , am I right?"

"Says the one named Crowley." Dean reminded. "Oh, scratch that, _Fergus_ MacLeod."

"Blame Mother." Crowley scoffed, and the two of them laughed. "I have been doing it excellently, all my life."

***

Dean Winchester was a simple man, who believed in simple pleasures. It'd gotten him labelled 'hedonistic', mildly put anyways - but he didn't care. Not at moments like this, he added, as he turned up the volume to Metallica.

After a morning of _Cas_ , an afternoon of playing the guitar and singing one of the best songs of all time, 'Crazy Love' with some of the people he admired the most, he was now driving the best car in the world to Atlantic City, one of the best places to party, to celebrate one of his closest friend's latest hit, with his other best friend.

Dean didn't know what else he could want, from life. There was nothing he could ask for.

He smiled, like he meant it, and slammed his foot on the accelerator.

***

Dean doesn't know what he's thinking, when he says it out.

"Cas, will you go to the after-party, or whatever the fuck it's called, of the Ketch-Davies show with me?"  

Okay, maybe he was thinking really hard about it, and the scales were weighing down in favor of not telling Cas about it, so some part of his brain malfunctioned and panicked, and threw it out. Maybe it's all he's been thinking about - guiltily, it goes without saying; since he received the phone call from Mick Davies, and maybe he's been thinking about it through Deadpool.

But it wasn't supposed to make him sound like this, in any case.

It wasn't supposed to be thrown out in the middle of an already going-on conversation - not supposed to make Cas look at him like that, in the middle of the day, without warning or precautions - it wasn't supposed to make Dean wait for so long, as Cas looked like he's processing it, and taking his easy time to come to a decision.

It wasn't supposed to be said, with those words.

"Okay." Cas says, suddenly. “I'll go with you.”

"You will?" Dean's breathless for some reason - he knows exactly what the reason is, goddammit - and he looks into Cas' sincere eyes, his head rushing.

Mick Davies had called him to let him know, that following the talk-show - with a total of five guests per show - there was another less-formal gathering. A after-party of sorts, he'd tried to put, sounding determined to make Dean a-okay the idea. Apparently, the five guests got a chance to - read, had to -  hangout for drinks, and share their experience of being on the show, and get a chance to catch up. Davies added, sounding almost sympathetic, that this was a new addition to their show, and was catching up with the fans who loved celebrity-interactions, so they really hoped Dean would stay. And, bring someone - because, 'the more, the merrier', Davies sounded as though he was reading from a script.

Dean's first thought had been Charlie, because no one else he knew was as excited - but Bobby was not very happy about that idea. He instantly declared, that Charlie's first public appearance shouldn't be something so casual; and that they'd stick to their original plan and introduce her at the mini-concert in Illinois - whose details Dean had still not poked his nose into. Anyways, his second thought had been Cas.

All of his other friends - Benny, Victor, Gabriel, Balthazar - would most definitely laugh it off, and tell Dean to go barhopping to pick up a date instead. He wasn't going to ask Garth, or Kevin, because that was weird. So, Cas it was.

Dean was earlier the boyish kind of excited about Cas' reaction to his suggestion, but by the time the moment came, he was the sweating-nervously kind of not-excited-but-definitely-terrified.

And, now, Cas had said yes.

"Why would I say 'no'?" Cas blinked. "I'd like to go."

And Dean was about to let go of his worries and actually feel happy about the whole matter - like, smile larger than usual, and stop being such an eternal pessimist and maybe even ask Cas to stay over longer since he didn't have practice - maybe even ask if Cas wanted to go get lunch, because he was feeling daring - when Cas spoke again, and Dean was pulled out of his reverie.

"There won't be any press coverage of this event, right?"

"Actually, there will." Dean shrugged. "Kinda the point."

Cas slowly frowned.

"No." He said, slowly. "I don't think I can go."

Dean stared at him, his eyes wide. Expression defensive. Euphoria forgotten. "This is about the media being there, isn't it? Dude, reporters with big-ass cameras aren't as bad as they look, if you know the right ways to deal. I'll let you in on my secrets, and you'll have a blast. Perfect Sunday evening. And, plus, you know, in this business, you've gotta get used to med-"

"No." Cas said, more firmly. There was an almost detached expression on his face, as he looked away from Dean, at the wall behind him. His frown was stoic, his back straight - shoulders cut to edges and the plane of his jaw sturdy. "That's not it. But I can't go, Dean. I'm sorry."

Dean drew in a breath.

"Why, then?"

Cas looked at him, piercingly.

"It's not possible."

Dean swallowed.

"Tell me why."

When Cas spoke, his voice was almost a growl. Rumbling, and beautiful. And, anything but fickle. And his words were clearly a lie.

"I have somewhere to be. Plans. On Sunday."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean challenged, leaning in to take in the full fury of Cas' insurmountable glare. "With?" His voice dripped with disbelief.

Cas stayed silent, his eyes calmly pleading Dean to abandon the line of discussion.

"That's right. _No answer_. Because there are no plans. You just lied, right to my face. You're lying through your teeth, Cas, and you're-" Dean stopped his seething rant, because Cas looked straight at him with such tension, that he lost the words he hadn't exactly been saying, as much as he'd been throwing out there to hurt Cas. The blue in his eyes was dark, and Dean could've winced from the glower of the perfectly still man.  

" _Admit_ it. You're lying to _me_."

Fuck, that was a mistake.

Dean pursed his lips - Cas drew himself away from Dean. He'd just kick-started the ending. This - whatever it was - had been balancing on the tip. They'd been tiptoeing around it, too afraid to push too far, but making it seesaw dangerously enough for them to stay still and silent in the middle. But Dean had just broken everything. And, it was falling; falling fast. Cas hadn't moved, but he was preparing to storm out of his life. Dean just knew. It'd happened before; Dean had tipped it over, yet again.

Cas was silent, for just another beat.

"I need to leave." He stood up, every bit the personification of anger, and begun to put on his trenchcoat. He didn't meet Dean's eyes again, even when Dean called out to him from the sofa - stunned, at the suddenness of Cas' departure. The ease with which Cas walked out of the conversation.

"Cas!"

"I need to leave. I _must_ ; and I apologize." He replied, focused on his shoes. "I can't be here right now. Dean." He added, as a farewell, not even meeting his goddamn eyes for a moment, as he marched out, without another word or expression.

"What the-" Dean swore, at the calmly shut door.

_What the fuck?_

What even was that? Dean's head reeled. What even happened? How did this happen? Cas just left. He didn't have anywhere to be - Dean could tell that. But, why? Dean knew he'd been unjustified in digging into Cas' so-called plans. Calling him a liar seemed to have effects which Dean couldn't begin to understand. But, leaving? Cas just left.

Dammit, why did Dean always have to screw up everything?

Dean tried to stop thinking - because the trail of thoughts was making him feel dizzy, and even worse than before. Dean deserved this. It was fine. Cas had been too good for him, anyways. He didn't need more than a push to leave Dean, wasn't it? Their friendship - whatever they had - was built on a fragile structure of laughs and distractions - and that was all there was to it.

Dean buried his face in his hands, trying to stop hearing the things Cas didn't say to him.

_"I don't want to see you again."_

_"I don't owe you an explanation."_

_"I don't want this, anymore. I did, once, but I don't anymore - and something's changed, or maybe it hasn't, but I just realized that this is not what I want!"_

_"This is it."_

Dean couldn't stop hearing the same words, which he remembered clear _as fuck_ from Lisa, the afternoon of their breakup. Dean was still recovering from a goddamn hangover - his head splitting, and Lisa had stood in front of him, with her luggage all packed to leave, and her eyes boring into Dean with the sort of hate that you don't expect to see from your fiancée. The exact fucking words. It stung so bad, that Dean didn't even realize when he was heaving breaths, and clutching onto the cushions to keep him grounded from a breakdown.

_"I don't want to be seen with you."_

It'd been Lisa's last words to him.

And, it'd been all over Cas' face, when he'd lied to Dean, and fucking walked out of his life.

It was always his fault.

***

**CAS**

**> >> I am, in no way, bound to tell you this, and remember that. But I have plans with your friends, Gabriel and Balthazar. You can ask them, if you don't believe me. **

 

**> >> Did you confirm it? Are you at peace now? **

**> >> Dean? You've read this. Why aren't you replying?**

 

**> >> Hello, Dean. This is Castiel.**

 

**> >> Dean, we need to talk.**

**> >> Is everything okay? I need to talk.**

 

**> >> You're not talking to me. **

 

**> >> Dean, it's Cas. You've read this. I can see that. Talk to me.**

**> >> I have to tell you something. It's important. Can you talk to me? Can you say something? I have to tell you something. This is not okay, Dean. I need to talk to you. Can you forgive me? This might help.**

**> >> Dean.**

**> >> You're being childish.**

 

**> >> I'm ashamed of myself. I know you're overthinking it. You've interpreted it wrongly. It's all a miscommunication. I did wrong. But Dean, it's not so bad. This can be resolved. I need to talk to you. I don't want to have this conversation over text. I want to see you. We need to talk. Dean, you're not talking to me!**

**> >> I didn't mean to send 12 messages, I'm sorry.**

**> >> I'M SORRY**

**> >> *14**

 

***

Dean woke, from his restless sleep on his couch, cranky six ways to Sunday, and his neck fucking hurting because of his sleeping position. He brought out his guitar, and tried to convince himself to sing. Feel as though he could actually get over his shit, and be what was expected of him.

It was the worst decision of all day when Dean picked out a beer from the fridge and dumped it on the centerpiece. And since bad decisions come in crowds, it wasn't long before he'd silently drunk his way through four cans, and his hands didn't shake as much as they should've as he reached out for the whiskey.

It'd been far too long since Dean let himself go like that; his profession and conscience - all of his family's nagging - had seen to that. But surely he could go all the way through, once in a life-shattering-bad-decision. He felt the quite forgotten feeling, alcohol in the system always brought tantalizingly - of his senses closing in on him, and it was a while before he picked his guitar again.

For the first time in a very long time, he forgot the lyrics, and stopped mid-song; staring at the familiar walls of his apartment, with unrestrained frustration.

Maybe, because beneath the mask, Dean was the worst kind of fucked-up guy, ever. Impending and overbearing 'John Winchester' thoughts he never let his sober self dwell on - abandonment and trust issues, that went hand in hand - his craving to be enough, and his constant failing to be so. His dreadful history. Being the mute obedient son - being too cowardly to stand up for himself, or even for his brother.  The pitiable and dependent adult, forever throwing his weight around, and surviving off his brother, who pulled him out of the hellhole John was sure to push him down. The fucking addict, of good times, at whatever cost. The piece of trash everyone delicately stepped around, to keep up in place. The pathetic brother, who could never be what Sam deserved - at some point, _needed_ . The crappy singer, who couldn't even get the lyrics right. The good-times friend. The stupid teenager, who half-assed his way through ten different high schools, who would've probably been stocking shelves on aisle thirteen if not for his father's influence in the world of sports. An asshole who slept around to feel better about being a piece of shit. A not-good-enough boyfriend. A further-undeserving fiance, for a matter of weeks, before the only woman he'd ever loved fucking left because Dean didn't deserve it. An all-exterior celebrity; because of the efforts of everyone around him. The star who didn't do a thing for himself. The decrepit boy, still tormented by the nightmares from his childhood. From _that_ night. The worst kind of everything he ever could've been.

Maybe, it's because the only words in his head, were killing him.

_"I don't want to be seen with you."_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter! We felt, the book needed angst. The next one is already in making, so that's that!  
> Have a great day, and maybe leave a comment, if you're not too mad for the delay in updating.


	7. “It’s like telling a kid, Santa isn’t real.”

The last thing he remembered was her fucking perfume.  
  
Intoxicating, like her.

Which, come to think of it, was all sorts of ironic.  
  
Bela Talbot, a gorgeous blonde, with a body that could make you sin - she used to be the first thing on his mind every single day, and the last. Dean hadn’t believed that they were dating for the first few unreal nights, and even later, he needed to repeat it to himself. Dean Winchester didn’t get people like her. She was out of his league - one of the rich and famous. But somehow, he had - and Bela wanted him too, and Dean had forgotten to think about much else in the spree. She occupied every nerve in his body; every breath in his chest. Maybe, Dean was obsessed. But, it wasn’t an obsession with the fame and glamor or the shared spotlight of her supermodel status. She was the obsession. One, which as far as he ever admitted out loud, hit him back hard.  
  
Dean could still have recognized the perfume, blurring with the sweet, inebriating stench of alcohol. The perfume was, naturally and essentially, imported from Paris. Not the talk of the town, but the whispers of the yachts. The 336 flowers sacrificed for her perfume felt more like 336 flowers for his grave.

After so long of conscientiously pushing Bela down beyond the reach of his head, every memory came bubbling up to the surface. First, it was slow and threatening - soon, his head was swimming and it was all there was. It was like reliving it. It was like seeing those scenes flash in his vision like they’re supposed to do when you’re dying, exactly like that.  
  
Funny what whiskey does to you.

_“I don't want to be seen with you.”_

Jesus, those last few days, she’d messed Dean up so bad, that he still wasn’t sure he knew the end of it. If only he’d seen it coming.

It was a Friday night when he’d proposed. She’d flown in from Los Angeles, just that afternoon. He’d kept the ring in his jacket, and not in the dessert or beverage. He’d gone down on one knee. She’d smiled, smiled so beautifully. Dean remembered the way her blonde curls bounced over her shoulder when she said yes, the way her eyes sparkled when she kissed Dean later - right before the photographers caught up with them. He remembered it all.

He also remembered when she said she was cheating on him. The two events seemed to be a breath apart. The way his heart stopped beating, the way his lungs couldn't breathe. The way she sought comfort and reassurance after shattering Dean’s world, the way she began to cry when Dean stayed still a moment too long, the way Dean hugged her then wordlessly. It’d hurt beyond imagination. But Dean didn't care - he’d resolved to not care because they were perfect. She was perfect. Because at that hour, Bela knew Dean better than anyone else. She knew who he has - she knew his nightmares and she knew his Hell. She loved him. She was all he could’ve dreamed of. She’d opened doors for him. Dean loved her. And, she was perfect. Bela Talbot kept him sane. And to lose her was unimaginable.

Dean drank a lot of whiskey that day too. Not easily drunk, he’d challenged himself to withstand all the hellfire he let down his throat - until his head hurt and was numb at the same instant, and the world was a blur and the clearest it’d ever been, in the same breath. Thirsty to passionate, and filled to the point of nothingness, he doesn't even remember getting home. He only remembered the burn of his first shot and the flashing lights, which may as well have been his nightmares.

When he woke up, Bela was glaring at him with a furious frown. Her hair curled to perfection, complimenting her features softly, yet her eyes blazing and contradicting it. She was yelling at him the minute his ears began to make sense, and she yelled for long.

_“What the hell is wrong with you!?”_

_“What kind of stupid person gets drunk at a bar? That even, a famous one? Do you want to embarrass me?”_

_“If you keep behaving in such a reckless manner, I’ll have no choice, Dean! You promised you’d not do this to me - you make it so hard for us to exist - to keep up with what they want! They want a happy couple, not a rookie getting drunk off his ass on a random weekday, with his fiancee working in Barcelona! You know what Jake just called to tell me? I shouldn’t be seen with you. Now, you’ve gone ahead and wrecked it up so bad that I can’t be seen with you!”_

_“This is incredibly immature, Dean! It’s like you want to screw us up. This has been happening forever, but ever since Sam’s begun to have his headaches, you’ve gotten worse! I have a reputation to maintain!”_

“Should have thought of your reputation, before you fucked him.”

Bela had paused.

And Dean had known that wasn't the right thing to say, especially since he saw her eyes harden, and the clench of her fist. He saw them break, the last bit of their relationship break. And something inside of him had seen it coming, and still said those words.

“At least I'm not a drunk. Look at you, following in Dad's footsteps after everything you ever did to show you were not him. We’re done, Dean. I’m done with you. I don’t want to see you again.” She’d declared as if the world bowed to her wishes, and it probably did. “I don’t want to be seen with you.”

She left after that. From the room, from his life, but never from his mind. Because he thought about that every day. He thought about it every day, not her, but what she said. He was nothing like his father. Dean was nothing like John Winchester. He couldn't think like that. Because if he did, Dean wouldn't ever be happy. And he wanted to be. Just one thing, only happy. He deserved it.

Dean felt like death and broken like mirrors. Every memory from that point of his life, felt like he was poisoning himself. Bela Talbot was poison. She was a monster.

If it hadn't been for his family, Dean might've never been able to recover. The thought was too surreal and entirely believable. Media, worldwide, focused on their breakup for what seemed like an eternity. Probably some other scandal came along that finally got them turning their heads away.

Dean hadn’t even made a public statement of their break-up, at first. Bela had, though. Within the next week, rumors had sparked, which _had_ to be started by her. Then, she’d gone on record saying she was single. Of course, she didn’t mention the cheating. Or the drinking. Those would spoil the goddamn diplomacy of it all. But all of a sudden, Dean was ‘not the man she thought she’d end up with’. ‘Not the person she’d made him out to be’, which made him sound like - like _he’d_ been the one with the affair. ‘Not the one for me’. 

So easily said. So nicely put.

Not so fucking nice from Dean’s perspective. Bela was the one the entire world sympathized with. She was the glamorous, famous supermodel, the _girl_ , the first one to speak about it, and by the time reporters were done spicing it up, the one with the short-end-of-the-stick. Nobody ever even thought that she was the one who ended it.

He, on the other hand, had been a mess. The hangover ended - it must’ve, though it didn’t feel like it - but the hurt didn’t. It worsened. What’d happened cleared out in his head. The ring was on the centerpiece, glittery as always, and staring dumbly at it and his empty apartment, Dean had been hit by the sudden realization, that the best part of his life was gone. The only part of himself he liked. What was keeping him sane.

The first few weeks were the worst.

Sam discovered on the fourth day, and it wasn’t through a call from Dean, he’s sure. But he showed up. Followed by the others.

_“Dean? Dean! What are you - Open your eyes, properly! What’s wrong? Where’s Bela? Can you sit up? You reek of booze, Dean - are you okay!?”_

_“Dean, what the hell? What is that - Are you okay? Can you hear me? Dean! What’s all this - you can’t keep drinking every time you get sober! The fuck, Dean, stay with me! I’m calling 911! And I’m calling Bobby!”_

The shock took some time to absolve. Dean was soon left with grudging denial, and a plethora of ‘I’m fine’s which no one but him believed.

The moment all hell broke loose, was during Dean’s first stint at an interview, in weeks. Pleasantries exchanged, the moment the proverbial blow was struck by Bela’s name uttered, he’d crumbled. It was a _good_ thing that interview didn’t air. That Bobby, and Sam had sources that could prevent it from happening. That kind of scene on national television would’ve destroyed Dean Winchester if he hadn’t been already.

_“I don't want to be seen with you.”_

Bela’s voice repeated, in his ears, bringing him back to the reality. The cool evening breeze, and the cold marble floors. The cold cork beneath his fingertips. The numbness of his fingers, and his sweaty neck. The clothes sticking to him, and his ears ringing.

_“I can’t be here right now.”_

His senses sensitized and blurred at the same time, he leaned his head back, heavily. Through a flicker of clarity and sense, he knew that he’d not remember any of this tomorrow. Any of it. Though a part of him argued that there’d even be one - the world spun like it was on a death ride.

Or maybe, that was him.

And, the same goddamn scene began to play out. The same lights hurting his head, and the same feeling of worthlessness thudding in his chest, like it could never be wrung out.

His eyes rolled back in his head, and he felt himself sinking into the black of his dreams as he let it go, and the last speck of consciousness escaped him as her words taunted from every wall of the room. _“I’ll have no choice, Dean.”_

_"I need to leave, Dean.”_

Passed out, barely on his couch, Dean Winchester was fortunately _well_ out of reach of frustrating parallels, that were hell-bent on making him go crazy. Nonetheless, unlike most nights, Dean’s dreams took a while to shift back to the reassuring Great American Pie Diner, where Dean and his Baby were a regular. A long while.

But then, whiskey does make you sad.

***

Opening his eyes was not nearly as difficult as keeping them open.

Freshly woken, Dean tried to keep his eyes open long enough, to drive away the sleepy pull of his eyelids, that threatened to snatch him back into his tiring, dreamless slumber. Alcohol-induced sleep could be that way, he thought, out of the blue. Before it suddenly made a bolt of sense to him.

Fuck, this was how hangovers used to feel.

Dean didn’t remember getting drunk - and didn’t feel like working up the urge to go digging through the blurry memories while his head felt like an impending hurricane - and he didn’t remember why. But before he took his leave from alcohol, he’d gotten this kind of drunk enough times, to diagnose a hangover.

And from what little had begun to make sense, as his vision cleared, he could title this here, one of the worse kinds of those.

Waking up tired and the parched feeling of his throat had been his first clues.

Dean groped at the sheets around him to help him stand up before he realized that this was not his bed. For a moment, he thought of the worst-case scenario - he reflexively begun to pray that they were not someone famous if indeed he’d ended up hooking up with someone - before it hit him, that he knew the walls of this room.

He’d fallen asleep on his couch.

That explained the numb feeling in the back of his neck, which only accentuated the fatigue he was overcome by as he got to a sitting posture, leaning heavily against the back of the sofa to keep him from slumping over.

He missed having a roommate, he thought once, as he staggered up a minute later, when he felt surer of his standing abilities, trying to find something to hold him up which wasn't his own feet.

So fucking _wrong_ , he cursed, as he felt the entire world move too quickly when he finally straightened.

He _really_ fucking missed having a roommate, he thought again, as he somehow made it to the washroom, his gut wrenching with unfamiliar pangs of nausea. He didn’t quite need someone to hold his hair back - Dean Winchester believed in the classic-cut, unlike idiots like his brother - but it felt like a dream to have someone hand him an Advil and a glass of water right about now. There wasn’t much in his stomach he could empty - it felt a suspicious lot like he hadn’t had dinner last night, for some reason - and Dean shoved the toothbrush in his mouth as he made his way out of the bathroom, not needing to lean on the furniture anymore, as he tried to pay attention to his footing in a way that’d not need him to bend down too much, because toppling over sure seemed like a possibility. He’d clearly not thought the activity through because as he stepped into the kitchen, he remembered, and had to stagger all the way back to the bathroom to spit and finish the brushing.

It’d been so long since he’d gotten _really_ drunk, that he’d almost forgotten how the morning-afters felt. Now, as he poured himself a glass of water to get rid of the dry feeling settled in his throat, he remembered. Hangovers sucked. Another reason Dean had stopped getting this kind of drunk.

Purely relying on his muscle memory, Dean rummaged around the kitchen, to put together the ingredients of something that could resemble a breakfast. Bacon used to help, didn’t it? To make matters worse, his phone began to ring, from somewhere around his person. On digging around irritatbly, he found that it was in the back pocket of his jeans - which apparently, he’d fallen asleep in.

Not in much of a thinking mood, he held it to his ear.

“Listen,” He was surprised to hear himself, after such a long time - his voice laced with the hoarseness, his throat felt every tinge of. “Speak slow, speak low. Code red, here.” He muttered, holding the phone between his shoulder and left ear, as he wrestled open the lid of the peanut butter jar.

“Dean?” There were so many words, all stuffed into that one, that if Dean could've dissected each, it'd have kept him up for days. Dean's head threatened to reel at that notion.

It didn’t take Dean more than a moment to register the voice. Cas. And as if on cue, his head felt like slumping again, weighing with the faint memories of the previous day. In another blink, the scene flashed in front of Dean’s eyes and cleared some of the blur in his head. The entire getting-drunk routine was still a black spot on the timeline, but at least something made sense. Baby steps.

_“I need to go."_

There it was. Another bout of scenes came flashing in Dean’s head. Cas had left. Without a word more. Just gotten up, put on his goddamn trench-coat, tied his laces without looking at Dean, and fucking left.

“Hey, dude,” Dean replied, holding the phone with his hand, now. “Morning. You ‘kay?”

“Yes,” Cas replied, softly like Dean had grumbled at him. He now felt like an idiot, for just assuming it’d be Sam, or Jo, or someone he could grumble at. “Are you?” It didn't quite sound like he was enquiring about his health.

“I’m fine,” Dean replied, reflexively. He was surprised at himself when the words kept coming after that. “Could do without the headache, but _hey_ \- Been worse. Been better too, but I’ll be back on track after my Breakfast dé Greasy, and if I can _just_ find the goddamn bottle of Advil. I’m cooking everything I can find, Cas. I think I didn’t have dinner yesterday. Wish there was pie, somewhere around. That'd be cool. Where are miracles when you need them?”

Cas hadn’t asked for _any_ of that. But apparently, now, Dean liked to _share_.

“What - You’re,” Cas’ gravelly voice trailed off. Dean wondered if it was just him tuning out of the conversation. But when Cas spoke again, he realized it’d been Cas who’d stopped speaking. “You’re _drunk_?” He put it as a question.

“I’ll do you one better.” Dean leaned towards the mic of his device. “I’m hungover.”

There was a pinch of silence. Cas sounded amused when he spoke. “You don't drink.”

“I thought so, too.” Dean rambled, on end. Something was wrong with his newfound affection to _speak_. “Except, looks like I do.”

Cas’s voice was unsure. “Does your head hurt?”

Dean tilted his head to the other side. “Not if you don't yell? Or, I look down? Or turn my head, without warning - or even think, actually.” He wondered aloud. “But don't worry, these are typical of hangovers, Cas. I’ll be alright.”

“I know that,” Cas answered him, easily. When he spoke again, he sounded uncertain - even Dean’s weary head could detect the hesitation in his tone. “Dean, when did you even get drunk?”

“I can tell you _where_ ,” Dean countered. “In my living room. In front of the television. On the white couch. You know which one I’m talking about? You should -  I mean, you’ve been here. Even yesterday.”

Cas let out a breath, but Dean could hear him smiling with it. Dean had made him smile. “Do you have any recollections of yesterday?”

“You weren’t listening. Thinking hurts.”

“Of course, I was listening.” Cas paused. “I need you to tell me, Dean. Do you remember my messages?”

A sudden thought passed through Dean’s head. _Fuck,_ no. “Cas. Did I drunk-text you? I swear I don't remember a thing! Man, I’m totally blacking out about yesterday. The entire being-drunk part is missing - I don't even remember what I thought about! Holy _shit_ \- I'm sorry - I really didn't mean whatever -”

“That’s the thing. You didn’t.” Cas sounded a little bit breathy, now. As if he was climbing stairs. “You didn't text me. But, I did. And, you saw my messages, and didn’t text me back.” Did he sound worried? “I was worried.” Point. “I thought of our last exchange, and I panicked. Texted you, again. You still didn’t reply. And Dean, I-I regretted every word I said to you.”

Dean couldn’t explain why he felt guilty. It was still his fault. Of course, it was his fault. He’d made Cas worry, made him panic. He’d made Cas regret.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, without context. Because Cas sounded so upset, because of him.

“No, _I’m_ sorry.” Cas breathed out, cutting him off. “I - _Dean_ . I’m sorry for being - I have _things_ to tell you.”

Dean drew in a sharp breath, closing his eyes. An unforeseen thought crossed his mind.  _You have so much to tell me. Why don't you? I have all the time to listen. I’ll fill it with my words, but I’d rather listen. I’d rather, you tell me things I’ll never ask for._ “Huh?” He said, instead.

“Yes, but this - right now - is not how I want to do it. This is just how I want to apologize. I just want to - I want to tell you that I’m sorry.”

There was a pause, but he could tell that Cas was holding his breath on the other end. Dean exhaled, and Cas breathed out with him. They breathe in together, matching each other, and Dean trying to calm Cas down. He closed his eyes, and let out his breath, almost sighing as Cas did the same - his breath tinged with his baritone deliciously mellow, and making Dean melt.

It was a weird kind of moment.

“Cas,” He finally spoke, his senses clearing enough to mean what he said. He didn’t comprehend much from the situation - he knew he’d run Cas’ words over and over in his head later, whole nights maybe, but at the moment, he did exactly what he knew he’d regret not doing later. “I just made breakfast. Yeah, I’m still in yesterday’s clothes, and my living room stinks - my head hurts when I try to think, and maybe I’ll never walk straight again, but I think I made enough breakfast for two. If you don't mind a shitty host,” Dean swallowed. “Come over?”

There was a beat of silence before Cas spoke. “I really want to.” Dean couldn't find it in himself to make fun of those cheesy words since Cas sounded so serious. “Are you sure you want me, to be there? You're not thinking right now,” His voice was grave. “But when you do start thinking, I’m afraid you’ll not want me there. I know, I hurt you - I don't need to be told that. I’m responsible for -”

“Don't make everything about you,” Dean shrugged, wiping his face with his sleeve. “I’ve got enough shit to get drunk over, once in a year. That’s being stingy, really. I want you here, okay? None of those first-time blues, remember? You wanna do me a favor?”

“Anything, Dean.”

“Get pie.”

Another beat of silence, before Cas begun to chuckle. “I feel like an idiot.” He added, pausing, and sounding so completely embarrassed that his frankness made Dean smile without meaning to.

“What, you don't know where they sell it?”

“No, Dean.” Cas paused. “I’m in your building, and I was about to do the thing when I ring the doorbell, and you wouldn’t expect me to be there so soon, so you’re shocked, and I’d joke about teleporting superpowers, and maybe make you laugh. But now I’m going to go down again and buy pie first. And, well, that destroys that entire charade."

“That’s -” That was a hell of a lot to process. Dean didn’t even want to think, and Cas was making him. “You know what? I’m not gonna say a word, just gonna come to the door. You’re something else, you know that, right?” Dean grumbled, leaning against the wall, as he made his way to the door. “A weird, dorky little guy.” Dean could hear Cas breathe out, as though he were already on the stairs. “Don't go back down; you can bring pie tomorrow and surprise me. Get _back_ here.”

Dean swung the door open, unnecessarily surprised to see Cas right in front of him, inches apart, holding the phone to his ear.

Cas, in his trench-coat from yesterday - from freaking always - with a stoic expression on his face, which completely contradicts the momentary emotional-stance or the disappointed-pranker voice. Cas, with his eyes and perpetual bed-hair. And frustratingly ridiculous sense of humor.

Cas, who still spoke into the receiver. “I’m there, now.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Dean muttered, working up a frown.

“I’m going to hang up now.” Cas declared, still holding the phone up, though now his eyes had a twinkle in them.

This guy was gonna be the end of him.

“...right.”

Cas put the phone down, neatly putting it into the inside pocket of his shirt, before startling Dean with a smile. All eye-crinkles, and subtle dimples. “Hello, Dean.” He repeated, and in that moment, all of yesterday and a few minutes before was forgotten. “You look quite normal.”

“I’m sorry, did you expect me to have grown horns overnight? Or do hungover people from whatever weird land you're from sport paper-jewelry to celebrate the gradual splitting of their heads?”

“Why paper? And no, I just meant that in regard to how awful you sounded on the phone, you look _impressively_ okay.” Cas smirked, slightly.

“You're gonna make me blush any day now,” Dean muttered, it striking him slightly how weird it was that he’d almost forgotten about yesterday with Cas standing in front of him. “Didn’t you primarily come here to apologize, you smirking jackass?” Dean groaned as he let him in and Cas wordlessly put his hand on Dean's shoulder to hold him there as if he'd had an epiphany that Dean Winchester had forgotten how to work.

“Speak softer, Dean.” Cas turned to him, with a serious expression, which could very well be sarcastic. He reached out his hand to Dean’s arm. “Your head hurts.”

“Yeah, what are you gonna do ‘bout it?” Dean dismissed it, sullenly - trying to shift attention from how sturdily Cas was holding Dean’s left bicep now - practically with enough strength to hold him up if he staggered. Way more trusty than the record-holder.

Cas shrugged. “How about, help?” 

***

“Are you sure you don't have any aversions to pain-relievers?” Cas confirmed, as he handed Dean his third glass of water since morning, and turned to face the medicine cabinet. Dean was sure he was only asking, because he was tired of searching for Advil in Dean’s messy cabinet, after a similar unfruitful search of his bedside drawers, though Dean could bet that's where he kept them. He'd also sworn that the emergency Advil was in here, but there'd been no success, yet. Even someone as great as Cas was bound to have a peak of patience when it came to searching for pills in your uselessly hungover friend's apartment.

Dean tried hard to gather enough control, to smirk. “Who would mind being relieved of their pain?”

“Well, Ibuprofen, for example, has been known to have some concomitant side-effects, which are sometimes as irritating as the pain. You know, on the lines of st-”

“It’s like you’re telling a kid Santa isn’t real.” Dean sighed, interrupting. “Don't you dare talk shit about Advils in front of me. They were there for me when nothing else was.” He joked, tiredly. “Just, look for them. Please.”

Cas, his hand on his hips, squinted at Dean for a full contemplative moment, before returning to his task. It was a weird situation, even to Dean’s barely-functioning brain. Cas was rummaging through his medicine cabinet while Dean sat on the edge of the bathtub, waiting. Arranging stuff like that once in a while didn’t seem like a bad idea, now.

Anyways, Dean could only watch as Cas looked through the shelves - filled way more, than necessary - because John Winchester had instilled some things in his head which couldn’t be chucked out. He was pretty sure, if Cas looked real hard, he’d find a whole surgery kit, for emergencies as John liked to say.

Finally, Cas stretched up, to reach the deeper confinements of the topmost shelf, and emerged with a triumphant, “Ha!”

Dean was quite sure he succeeded in masking his instinctive staring when Cas’ grey shirt rode up when he stretched and exposed just a sliver of smooth skin, and his toned back. Cas didn’t say a word, even if he did catch him looking, and Dean was grateful for that.

“And that’s why you should throw out used bottles,” Cas added, handing Dean the bottle.

“I don't plan in advance for hangovers, anymore.”

“Well, you sure do plan for an apocalypse, you may have to fight single-handedly.” Cas smiled, and Dean thoughtlessly nodded. “The amount of supplies I saw in there could do Ultimate-Fighting-runners-up so much good.”

“Fall-back career.” Dean prompted. “It’s just that, when you play soccer, you get into some ugly fights - hospitals aren’t always an option, with the press swarming around, and bleeding to death from bruises by another team’s asshole doesn’t have a lot of charm. I was raised by one - hell, to _be_ one - and it just stuck.” Dean told Cas, who was looking at him in that weird concentrated way of his.

“You also do plan in advance for a lot of incidental sex,” He spoke suddenly. “For a guy who isn’t in a relationship, you sure have a whole lot of condoms.”

Dean swallowed. “What can I say? The salesgirl was _very_ persuasive, and I got a great discount.”

“Yeah, right.” Cas grinned, as he held out his hand to Dean. Dean took it grudgingly, and stood up, refraining from grunting like an old man as he did. “Did you also get a discount on the Johnny B Hair gel, and the Supersonic Hair Dryer?”

“Stop judging me for my medicine-cabinet. I never said I made wise choices.” He complained as he followed Cas out of the bathroom, now walking much straighter, and feeling like there could actually be scope of recovery. “I can _hear_ you laughing in your head.”

“You know what? Stop thinking so much.” Cas turned and declared. “No one’s judging you. Also, isn’t thinking supposed to make your head hurt?”

“Ow?”

“You need to sit down. I’m serious. I’m not sure if we’re helping your head by moving around so much.” He cocked his head. “I’ll bring the food, okay?”

“You won’t be able to find the dishes!” Dean objected lamely, completely against making Cas work for his benefit. That was weird. He didn’t need someone fussing around, like that. It’s not like he had the flu - it was just a hangover. He could deal with it, himself. And as _okay_ \- nice - as it felt to have Cas around, and help him up or whatever, he didn’t need Cas serving him breakfast, or cleaning his messes.

“Is that a challenge?” Cas grinned, walking towards the living room, gesturing at Dean to follow. “Because I take those very seriously. By pointing out that I won’t be able to do something, you’ve just gotten me determined to prove you wrong. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it works in my head. Reverse psychology is very effective on me.”

Dean made a face - absolutely _didn’t_ whine - at Cas’ monologue. “I didn’t call you here to,” _Take care of me_. “Do my crap for me. There was a completely different reason, you understand, right?”

“Sure. But let’s first deal with the more urgent matters on hand.” Dean sat down on the couch, and let out a sigh because it felt amazing to not be standing up, anymore. He only realized that, as he sat. Fuck, he was still a long way from normal.

It was a good weekend to not have practice with Jody and the crew.

“I’m _fine_.”

“You keep saying that.”

“So, you decide what I get to say, now?” Dean rolled his eyes, the best he could.

“Don't argue with me, for no reason.” Cas silenced him. “I’ll be back with the food. And, I’ll remind you that this is _not_ my first time around your kitchen, so stop worrying, too.”

That was correct, actually.

Again, weird moment, as Cas strode off to Dean’s kitchen like it was perfectly normal for him to move around like he did, and Dean was left staring at the walls of his living room, with absolutely nothing to do but nurse his head.

But Dean could deal with it, as long as he didn’t think too much into it - which he was doing a sufficiently good job of. He felt much better, after all the water and the pills. And, with Cas around. More like bossing him around, but he could live with that. As long as he didn’t _think_ too much about it.

“Keep talking to me.” Dean breathed out, assured that Cas couldn’t see him be needy, from the kitchen.

“I would, but if I yell from the kitchen to respond to you, your head will hurt,” Cas replied, stepping back into the living room, his eyes earnest, and rolled up sleeves of his shirt, and a plate in his hand as if to display his achievement, looking so _domestic_ that -

Dammit, he needed to _stop_ thinking, already.

“I can deal with a little bit of hurt.” He coaxed. “And, talking will help me _not_ think. And thinking’s clearly the worst of those evils.”

He could hear Cas smiling, as he replied, from the kitchen again. “Well, what would you want to talk about?”

“How about,” Dean wondered if that was permission to ask, what had been on his mind. “You tell me how you showed up in my building, in moments after I asked you to, and none of the teleporting crap, you hear me?”

Cas was silent.

Wrong question, Dean cursed at himself.

“I meant-”

“Dean-”

They both began, at the same time. Dean cleared his throat. “You first.” He wished he could see Cas as he spoke the next words.

“I told you before, I was worried.” Cas began, and just the gentleness with which Cas said those words made something in Dean go wrong - and he was thankful that Cas couldn’t see him. “I wanted to check in on you. My theory was, you were mad at me - that you were ignoring me. But, I needed to know if you were fine. I almost wanted to just _knock_ on your door, so that you’d not get a chance to tell me to stay away - but, on the way here, I realized that if I was right, you wouldn’t want me here. I thought of yesterday. After I - I said those things, I couldn’t show up unannounced. You not replying obviously meant that you didn’t want me here, anymore -” Cas’ voice was growing softer, with every word, but Dean could hear them perfectly clearly. It was just the two of them in the entire place.

“- it didn’t -”

“-To me, it did. Think of it, from where I stood. I was prepared to go back, and not try to contact you _myself,_ ever. But, I suppose I really didn’t want to do that. I knew I was being stubborn, to want to work things out. I had no idea what you were thinking. So, I decided to call you. I had decided that you not picking my phone would mean that you never wished to see me again-”

“Isn’t that too much pressure on _one_ goddamn call?” Dean choked out. “Cas, what if I hadn’t picked up the phone because I couldn’t get to it in time? Would that mean that I never wished to see me again? What kind of bullshit is that, to put everything on the line - on _one_ fucking stupid call to a hungover dumbass?”

“But - you _did_ pick up the phone.”

“Yeah, and what if I hadn’t?” He repeated.

“You _did_.”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean scrubbed his hand, with his face, forcing himself to get on his feet. “You don't get it, do you? You can’t just make those decisions, yourself! You don't get to decide if I don't want to see you-you just can’t think of everything, yourself!”

“I-”

“I wasn’t kidding when I said that yesterday evening is a blur in my head. I can’t remember what went through my head - but it couldn’t have been, that _I_ never wanted to see _you_ again because you know what? I’d remember thinking something like that. And, _yeah_ ,” Dean let his will lead him towards the kitchen. “I was pretty upset when you stormed out of here-”

“- I didn’t _storm_ out -”

“- What you did, was worse! You didn’t even _yell_ \- you just picked up the goddamn coat and left, and that was _worse_ ! But, let’s just put that on hold for a minute here, and focus on the goddamn fact, that if I hadn’t picked up that call, you wouldn’t be here right _now_ , or- _well_ -ever!”

Dean reached the frame of the kitchen.

He was prepared for something sharp from Cas - he’d practically been yelling at him for the past minute, and apparently, that didn’t hurt him as much as he’d anticipated - he was even prepared for Cas to walk out, or something - because Dean had been yelling at him, and blaming him, and projecting, and -

Cas took two steps towards him, and wrapped his arms around Dean, in an out-of-place hug. Except, when he buried his chin firmly in Dean’s shoulder, and Dean could see how stiff his shoulders had gotten - it was the most expected thing to do, to hug him back. Dean didn’t know how to go about doing that since Cas was almost as large at him, and Dean wasn’t much of a hugger - but he wrapped his right arm around Cas’ middle, and let the other rest near Cas’s right shoulder blade.

“You picked it up,” Cas whispered, his lips so close to Dean’s ear, but his voice still of the perfect tenacity.

“I did,” Dean agreed mutely, feeling every feathery breath, as Cas’ strong arms were around Dean. Dean didn’t really pay attention when Cas’ hands begun to slide down, go loose. He didn’t come apart on cue, holding onto Cas, feeling his heart throb in his chest and his head swoon. His knees would’ve buckled under his trembling person if Cas weren’t there to hold him up.

***

“I’m surprised, really,” Cas said, looking down at his sandwich. Dean looked up from his and met Cas’ eyes across the dining table. They’d decided it was a good idea to eat on the table for once since the living room was already a mess, and Dean was not going to get on the phone with ‘Get Set Clean, Soho’ - his house-cleaners - until the mess was well and truly made, and Dean was sure he had regained his talking-on-the-phone abilities.

“That even not-fully-functioning me is a great chef?”

“No,” Cas looked at Dean through his eyelashes, the blue making the distance. “Well, that too, I guess. But mostly, you didn’t really _ask_ me why I left.”

Dean bit his lip. He felt almost back to normal, now. “I should’ve?”

“I didn’t _want_ to tell you,” Cas stated plainly, making Dean suppress a smile at the bluntness of it. “If you would’ve asked before, I’d have tried to dodge the question. But, I think I want to.” There was a pause. “Okay. Maybe I don't want to tell you, but I do want you to know.”

“Somebody give us a medal for our communication skills this morning,” Dean rolled his eyes, to ease the tension.

“No medals until you tell me why you got drunk.” Cas countered. “I know I had something to do with it, but there’s got to be a better reason you flung aside your hard-kept sobriety.”

Dean drew back, a bit. “Don't make me sound like an alcoholic, going through withdrawal because of a mid-life crisis.” He threw back, with probably more seriousness than Cas had expected. The lights of the room seemed to get brighter, as Cas’ eyes widened, showing off the shades. “Can’t it just be that you turning me down hit me hard? Maybe, I’m secretly one of those can’t-deal-with-rejection sons of bitches.”

“Dean.” Cas’ eyes had narrowed again. “Don't say these things. _Tell_ me, if you think you can. If you think you should.”

“And, should I?”

“I’m not going to decide that for you.”

“Well,” Dean didn’t know where he found the courage. “Probably be better to tell you. Hell, I think I _can_ tell you, Cas. But, before - why did you turn me down?”

“That’s a conversation for later.”

“You can’t do that!” Dean glared at a stoic Cas. “You can’t just close yourself up for conversations you don't want to have! You told me, you’d explain before! I-I deserve an explanation.”

Cas met his gaze. “You do. And, trust me, I’ll tell you. But not right now.”

“ _Why_?”

“You’re still recovering, Dean. Your head hurts, as it is. Maybe you’re still a little drunk - _I_ don't know!” Cas lashed out, and Dean stared at him, seething. “If I tell you that I’ll tell you, it means that I will. There’s no need to - think I’m _lying_.”

“Sure, make excuses.” He scoffed, looking away. A part of him wondered where he was getting the will to say these things. The Dean he knew himself to be would’ve dismissed the discussion altogether, the first time Cas suggested putting a pin in it - suggesting a beer and a movie, instead. But words kept coming, and Dean didn’t rein them in. “Make excuses for not having the guts to just _talk_ to me. For not trusting me enough, is that it? Or maybe, you’d rather walk out of here.”

Silence reigned for a moment, until Cas exhaled, and cleared his throat.

“Dean, I don't want you to be mad at me.” His voice was level. Dean insolently raised his head. “Please. Can we come to a compromise?”

“Huh?”

“Tonight,” Cas said, in a decisive tone. His jaw was set, and the rare lines on his forehead were showcased by the way he leaned his head back, and looked at Dean, in the sense that made him feel that Cas was looking at something more than six-foot of a scalding-hot mess.

“Tonight?”

“Yes, tonight,” Cas repeated, and he looked sure. “I’ll tell you, tonight. You’re right, I don't have the guts. But I do trust you. And, I won’t walk out of here. Not again.” He paused, and made a move towards Dean’s side of the table, with his hand. “I’d like to see you tonight if you don't mind.”

Dean swallowed. “Don't mind.”

“We don't need to do this in your apartment. Let’s go out.” Cas added. Dean’s head did a quick analysis - that’d been being seen out in public with Cas, something that’d not happened yet. But, he didn’t mind _that_ much either. “Where would you prefer?”

“I could come over to your place,” Dean said before he could think better of it. He immediately regretted it. “Your hotel, I mean. Right? I’ve never been. And, you haven’t talked much about it.” And instantly, a quaint picture formed in Dean’s head. To live this long in a hotel, it had to be one of those comfortable inn-like places. Not the crappy, remote motels the Winchesters grew up in. It was probably a pretty little building - not very high - and sparsely filled, with families and _Cas_ . The staff must adore him, but since Cas wasn’t exactly _social_ , they’d give him his space while he lounged in the dining-halls and wrote as he waited for dinner.

\- _Dean Winchester, what the fuck was that?_

As if it weren’t enough that Dean’s subconscious had a tendency to associate Cas with these dreamy cliches of songwriter-traveler - now, he was actually picturing it - _you’re losing it, Dean. You’re_ completely _losing it._

His head sounded like Nicholas Sparks. He refocused on Cas.

“Right.” Cas frowned, breaking into his reverie with a slightly hurried tone. Changing topics. “But, that’s not what I had in mind. Somewhere else. I could make reservations. I’ll surprise you.”

“You just love surprises, don't you?”

“I didn’t realize that I did, but I guess, maybe. Especially, with you. I enjoy surprises with you.” Cas wondered aloud, with a small smile, returning to his sandwich.

“Fine.” Dean leaned back in his chair, feeling a tinge of satisfaction. “Over dinner. Got it. No going back on your word.”

“Promise.”

There was silence again, for a few moments.

Dean broke it, rather impatient to make conversation, again. The topics might be weird, and Dean might be nuts, but he enjoyed talking to Cas. The silence weighed heavy. “Cas,” He found himself saying. “That doesn’t mean you have to stop talking, you know. Go _back_ to talking. What were you saying? Why you left.” Realizing how crude that sounded, he added, with a hint of humor. “If you don't want us to postpone that topic to lunch, that is.”

Cas shook his head. “I won’t be having lunch with you, Dean. My plan was and remains to leave a little after breakfast. I have to meet with Crowley.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Of course, you do.” He always had to meet with Crowley.

“I don't know where to begin,” he said, all of a sudden. Dean put his elbows on the table, leaning forward, staring at Cas’ lips as he talked, without meaning to. “I don't tell this one, to people. I hardly ever tell it to myself.”

I know _that_ feeling, Dean thought.

Dean said aloud. “Start wherever, just with context.”

“Is it just me, or do we end up making _‘sharing’_ a more serious event, than it’s supposed to be?” Cas ended up saying instead, lightly.

“Nah, just you.” Dean smirked, feeling a lot more like he could joke, with Cas' squinting eyes looking at him that way..

Cas let out a chuckle at that and composed himself, after. Dean couldn’t believe he’d actually gotten Cas to _talk_. Serious character development. He could be proud of himself, later. “It’s a way shorter story than I’m probably making it seem. I-I dated this girl.”

Something twisted inside Dean. Probably just after-effects of the hangover.

“This is about an _ex_ , is it?”

“That’s rather obvious since I am no longer dating her.” Cas deadpanned, and Dean had to grin at that unarguable logic. “Meg Masters.” He added as if that were to tell Dean a lot more than the name of a chick who got to be with Cas.

“Sounds beautiful,” Dean shrugged.

“Very.” Dean saw the corner of Cas’ lip twitch.

“The obvious kind?”

“I suppose.” His brows knit together. “She was wonderful. Always there for me,” he paused as if trying to articulate what his eyes were already saying. “In all of the bad times. All of the real bad ones.”

“Oh,” Dean muttered, looking down at his plate. Not knowing, what to think.

“She had tattoos.” Cas suddenly announced, brightening. “That’s a strange story. The first time she ever got high, she wanted to remember it. So, she got a tattoo. The second time, she claims she was actually high when she got it. Third, fourth, and then it became something usual. She didn’t want to get a collection or a scene, or even around the same topic. She just wanted to keep getting them. Used to joke, that she loved how the needles felt.”

Dean had kinda gotten hitched in the middle. “And, she kept getting high too?”

“Yes.” Cas’ voice tilted on dangerously low for a moment, before he met Dean’s eyes, and lifted up to normal. “Yes. She did.”

It somehow didn’t seem very fitting. A guy like Cas with a junkie. Cas seemed like the friend who’d push you into rehab.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Cas broke in.

Dean raised his eyebrows, challenging.

“You’re wondering if I _joined_?”

Dean recoiled. “No, I-I was actually-”

“It’s okay.” Cas went on, and Dean was hit by the fleeting realization that Cas now suddenly wanted to talk to him about this. Wanted to talk to someone about this. Wanted to talk about this. “I did, you know, sometimes. Not half as much tolerant as her, but she enjoyed my novice nuances. I had actually learned to enjoy it when _it_ happened.”

Dean would be lying if he said that he wasn’t taken aback. He didn’t exactly know why, though. Amateur songwriting should’ve made a link in his head - Dean wasn’t in much of a place to judge, but even most successful people in that line often need the inspiration. But again, it seemed such a vile thing to be associated with Cas. But, Cas wasn’t done. And, Dean continued to listen.

“It was when I had to - _well_ , I wasn’t in the city, for a couple of weeks.” Cas pursed his lips, and as he began speaking again, Dean noticed that he seemed even more serious than before. Older, actually. “When I came back to Meg, she was behaving strangely. She began insinuating _things_. Accusing me of having an affair in the - the other place.”

Dean frowned.

“I tried to make her understand. There was no one else, there could never have been. But, in her state, she was sure that I’d lost interest in her. Had had enough. She told me to go away. I shouldn’t have, but I did. I was offended she was charging me with something that I could _never_ do. That she could think I could ever do that to her, after what she did for me. I could never cheat, Dean. But, that’s not the point. I left.”

He breathed out.

“Next morning, I got a call from the hospital. Meg had overdosed. Did I mention this was in Italy? Smoking weed’s a misdemeanor. But sales gets you in all the worst kinds of trouble. At the hospital, the doctors said that she would be okay. She’d been delirious, but very much alive - rendered unconscious by the medicines, by the time I wound up there. But the police wanted her now. She’d apparently taken all she had left, and tried to sell them on the street. Get rid of them. And then, she’d injected herself, with - with what remained, and instantly greened out.

“I tried my best. Used all my sources, called everybody I thought could help, did everything I could. It was not easy. But, Meg woke up. Incidentally, I wasn’t there when she did. I don't remember what I was doing, then - begging a police officer to release the charges or trying to get our apartment clean before she came back to it - but all that mattered to her was that I wasn’t there.” His voice was bordering towards angry, but it never did cross the line. Just waivered over anger and despair. “I don't know, what she thought I was up to. When I returned, she kept shouting at me - accusing me of lying again when I told her that I’d been there, _all_ the time. She told me that she knew I hadn’t looked for her. She had it in her head that I didn’t care enough to look for her. To be with her. She told me that she’d tried to get clean for _me_ so that she’d be someone I could be with. And in the next sentence, she told me that she never wanted to see me again. That either she’d leave the country or that I should.”

Dean swallowed.

“And, I took the exit. I left again.”

He continued to look down at his hands, wringing them unsympathetically. Dean wanted to tell him that he understood.

“You’ve not said something for a really long time.” Cas pointed out, getting up almost suddenly, and picking up both his and Dean’s plates with a casual ease, as he walked into the kitchen, not waiting for a reaction. Not even looking for one. The tale was apparently over - what had to be told had been told, and what was to be understood should’ve been understood - and he didn’t want to talk, anymore. Dean, if he ever did, _understood_.

“I know you’re mad at yourself.”

“Why should I be?” He reappeared, staring at Dean stonily. “Because, when I left? I _actually_ did her good! She’s _married_ now, you know. To a chef. Has kids - _plural_ . She works at their restaurant, and - and _smiles_ and wears cream-white _aprons_. Doesn’t roll up the sleeves during her shifts though, because her arms are inked with blasphemic carvings - mistakes I let her make, and which probably are the only thing remaining to remind her of me!”

Dean was taken aback, at Cas’ sudden loss of control. He couldn’t ask how Cas knew all of that - he just knew. He’d helplessly watched Bela at interviews from afar, one too many depressing afternoons. He stood up, to match Cas’ stance. Some part of him, that sounded _very_ reasonable right now, wanted to hug him again. But, Dean didn’t want to trust himself with holding that breaking, beautiful man so close again. In some twisted meaning of the phrase.

“Cas, that isn’t true - they were _her_ mistakes! They needed to be made!” He instead countered, meaning every word of it. ”Don't blame yourself! And, you needn’t be ashamed of -” Dean paused, not knowing how he’d ever be able to complete that sentence. Took a different approach. “You _said,_ she’s _happy,_ now. You’ve always wanted that for her.”

“She’s happy _now_ ,” Cas repeated as if he himself didn’t know what he meant by that, different feelings all over the place.

“Do you really expect me to believe that you never made your girlfriend smile?”

“Different kind of smile.” Cas took a step closer. “Dean,” He repeated. “I feel other things than just happy for her. Maybe, I’m jealous of that chef, who was able to make her happy. Maybe, I’m jealous of her happiness. I’m - I’m _crazy,_ to be thinking of why _I_ couldn’t make her happy, aren’t I?”

“You’re mad that you left - the _first_ time.”

“How could I not be, Dean?” Cas countered, after an eternity.

Dean didn’t know how to deal with that sort of blunt and bitter acceptance, only having dealt in denial all of his life. He didn’t know what to say. But, at the moment, Cas didn’t look like he wanted him to say anything. For a while, he’d held his gaze. Then he’d started in the direction of the living room, wordlessly. Just, looking at Dean and conveying everything in a breath - he’d like Dean to join him, but not just yet. That discussion was over. Cas needed to be alone, for a few minutes, even if it be - but firmly so.

Might as well. Dean didn’t know how to deal with acceptance, and not for the first time, he wished he were a little more like Sammy. At least, around people he cared about. Sam could practically wrench out a heart-to-heart from an emotionally constipated Winchester - Dean or John - and that was saying a lot. Dean wished he knew what to say, that’d tell Cas that he’d understood, that he shouldn’t blame himself for her mistakes, that he was allowed to think like that - that it was not wrong, to feel jealous. But, all he did was breathe, shallow and silent, clutching the arm of the chair Cas’d been sitting on as if somehow that helped. Trying to decide what to say when he went to Cas, again.

He knew what Cas had been trying to get through. But in that moment, as he contemplated telling Cas out loud that he understood why Cas had to leave the moment Dean accused him of lying to his face - he realized that this was more than that. This was Cas confiding to him. Telling him something - a real something - and it did more than justify his act. It opened him up. Dean couldn’t just purse up his lips while Cas was vulnerable and leaking emotions in his proximity - so he did what he thought would be the best way to deal.

He walked out to the living room, in the direction Cas was in, and took a seat himself on the white couch.

“ _Mine_ is about an ex, too.” He attempted to shrug, but his own words and the impending moments weighed his shoulders down with dread. “Willing to share the limelight with me in that category, Cas?”

“I believe I am.” Cas lifted his head, and he would’ve looked normal - _normally_ the hottest guy he’d ever seen, of course - had Dean not seen him in the kitchen just a few moments back, completely stripped of the cool exterior. It was ridiculous how quickly he composed himself - this wasn’t the first time Dean had noticed it. He could be snickering at a innuendo one moment, and perfectly deadpan the next. In the start, it’d struck Dean as a rehearsed exterior. Later, he’d learned that that’s just how Cas was. _Forever ready to address the people from the King’s gallery_ , Dean had called it out loud, and Cas had rolled his eyes.

But nonetheless, Cas showcased a small smile, and Dean read it perfectly. Thanks for not saying something about me again - and for changing the topic. _Of course_ , Dean hoped his eyes whispered back, and not _this was a bad decision_.

They were the only ones in the large apartment, but still, they spoke in whispers and blinks - because words were too loud, and could shatter the delicately constructed reverie.

“ _Well_ then,” Dean cleared his throat, sitting next to Cas so that he could avoid looking at him. “We owe me a moment to think about the beginning.”

This would be his first time talking about it to someone, who hadn’t _been_ there, at the moment - seeing him break, in the first place - discovering him drunk and delirious every consecutive night, curled up on his bed, clutching onto her remnants in the sheets - or sprawled out on someone else’s bed, and crying in his dreams. The only people who knew what’d happened - Sam, Bobby, Jo, Ellen and Gabriel. In that order. All others just knew passed-on versions - censored versions, even, because Dean was too pathetic to even address it out loud, until now.

“I’ve got this.” He muttered to himself. “Let’s do it the old-fashioned way.”

Cas nodded patiently, his eyes warm in spite of everything, as he looked at Dean, and Dean only. And mirroring Cas exactly, since Dean had nothing if not a sense of humor, he began. “So, I dated a girl too.”

***

Stretched out with his head leaning against the large pillows from his bedroom, knowing Cas was busily texting Crowley sitting inches away from Dean’s feet on the same couch, Dean felt some sort of exhausted.

Spent seemed more accurate, for what it’s worth.

And, it was not the kind of _spent_ that made you want to close your eyes, and give a pleasant middle-finger to the troubles of the world, and take a giant nap. It was the nicer kind of spent, that makes you want to maybe smile at people around in that tired, old way, like a miner going back home after digging his chest of gold.

It was not the kind of spent that came after two excruciatingly interlinked very _real_ conversations with your buddy-you-kinda-have-the-hots-for. Or the kind of spent that followed sharing those Not-for-anyone’s-eyes secrets to someone, who told you his.

It was also, Dean remembered in full-blown embarrassment, _not_ the kind of spent that trails after you’ve emptied the contents of your stomach, and no longer experience the bloated untraceable discomfort you’ve had since the moment you woke up. (Cas had followed after Dean both times as if that was some sort of loyalty, and Dean had slammed the door in his face both times too, with a glare. Letting Cas see him puke his hangover to an end wasn’t a show of friendship - it was downright _gross_.)

It was not the kind of spent you are, painfully awake with them in your arms after a wild night at the club, extended.

But it resembled the kind of spent you are after a satisfyingly drawn-out kiss.

Dean didn’t know the person operating his thoughts, but he could’ve sworn it wasn’t him. He sounded like a hopeless teenager, monologuing their musings to a laptop screen, with that soft smile you have when you’re writing about love.

All he knew was that he was _sure_ going to pay more attention to not letting his thoughts get away from him. This was getting out of control.

“It’s settled.” Cas put down his phone and looked at Dean. “Crowley will get us bookings.”

“That son of a bitch does you a whole lotta favors, doesn't he?” Dean drew up his eyebrows. “Can’t imagine him calling a reception-desk, though.”

“Oh, he’s got a guy, who’ll tell another guy to tell the final guy to get it done.” Cas replied, and frankly, that was the best description of Crowley ‘Fergus’ MacLeod, Dean Winchester had ever heard. He threw back his head and laughed.

“Are you feeling better?” Cas said afterward with the air of a person who’s beginning his rounds of goodbyes.

“I feel normal.” Dean shrugged. “I think I’m ready to take up thinking again.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Cas said, a little hesitant. “About everything.”

“If you’re trying to ask if I’ll get started on getting myself piss-drunk again the second you leave the premises,” Dean rolled his eyes. “Then, no. No, Cas, I won’t. I know how to-how to live by myself. So you can stop worrying about that. I’ll have you know, I have to be someplace in the afternoon. The - the stupid talk-show. _I_ still gotta go.”

“I remember,” Cas replied, more lightly than his eyes looked. “And Dean.” He paused. “I just wanted you to know, even though we’re not on the topic anymore, that I don't think any less of you because - because of what you told me. Bela didn’t make the right decisions. The right way to deal isn’t to yell and it isn’t to insult and insinuate. I shall never be able to look at her the same way again.” Cas ended, sounding grave, as though he saw Bela every other week at work.

“Yeah, when she shows up on the cover pages, I expect you to frown real hard - yeah, just like that - and turn the ‘zine around to the back cover.” Dean grinned, not wanting to go back in the deep, just because. Too much serious shit had been said. Dean didn’t like to draw out these deep moments. For a while is bad enough. Dean Winchester, son of his father, was back.

“I assure you I will.” Cas nodded, looking as though he didn’t really understand Dean’s hilarious joke, but nodded along anyways.

“Also. No attempts at kidding,” Dean continued, completely kidding. “But, while I’m not completely sure that you’ll stop thinking you’re responsible for Meg’s dark-spots, I bet you’ll make some girl very happy someday.”

“Or guy.” Cas thoughtlessly added.

Dean tried hard to be the model of unaffectedness. He really did.

“You thinking of a level playing field now?” He laughed, weakly. “Double the number of fish in the sea? Drive on both sides of the road?”

“Those are some strange idioms,” Cas remarked, looking at Dean. “But, there’s no ‘now’. I’ve identified as pansexual for a very long time.” He added because Dean must’ve been transparent in his surprise. “I thought you _knew ."_

“You never mentioned it.” Dean blinked. He knew what that meant. He’d done a bit of research after his first night with a guy ever - one drunk evening at a club which relaxed his insecurities enough to give into it - and he’d read about things he’d never been taught at school, or at home, and probably was expected to just _know._ What it meant though, was that Cas could actually be attracted to Dean - the _‘could’_ suggesting a capability, rather than a possibility. Considering the fact that Dean was _Dean_.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve been more like, ‘Hello, call me Cas, I’m pansexual’.”

“You’d never be like that.” Dean rolled his eyes, caught up in it. “You could never introduce yourself as Cas - you were murderous when I called you by it the first time.”

“I did _not_.” Cas matched him, by rolling his eyes, but ended up doing some sort of an upper-body roll - an embodiment of sarcasm.

“Did too.”

“I am not going to encourage this line of conversation.”

“Did too.” Dean cheekily grinned.

Cas huffed out a laugh. “Did _not_ , and don't say ‘did too’, or I’m out of here,” Cas threatened, and Dean rolled his eyes another time but didn’t risk it. “And, if we’re still on that, I know you’re bisexual.”

“Wait a second,” Dean pretended to be deep in thought. “Did I introduce myself to you, saying ‘Hey, the name’s Dean, I’m bi’? Because I really can’t remember.”

“No, you actually sang to me. Really sweet of you.” Cas raised his eyebrows, with a smile widening on his lips.

“Well, you pretended to be a producer named Krushnic, so that’s your fault.” Dean threw back, something else he’d often thought of, but never asked out loud because he remembered the defensive stance Cas had undertaken that one time he did. Dean didn’t want to mess up perfectly good things, thank you very much.

Cas seemed to be dampened for a minute, but he was back on track, and the trip down the short memory-lane went on, for a while, leading to Dean telling Cas about his first talk-show interview. He looked like he understood all of Dean’s qualms. Dean couldn’t reason out why except Cas must be an intuitive guy. Until, it was finally time for Cas to leave, and for Dean to get into some clothes and call Bobby Singer, and set off for the show-studio.

At the door as Cas tied his laces again, and Dean waited for him to be done, Cas spoke up, again. “I’m genuinely relieved, Dean. Miscommunications are not worth it. We were both acting out of aggression and our pasts, and I’m glad we’ve come in the clear-”

“Nuh-uh.” Dean interrupted. “The clearing up’s not done yet.” Cas subdued, visibly. “Tonight’s not just a d-dinner out. It’s -”

“I know.” He sighed. “I know what I promised.” He seemed to be lacking short of more words. “But - but yes, as far as we’ve cleared up our mess, I like how we stand.”

“Despite the fact that we’re a couple of projecting dumbasses?”

“I prefer the word, novice. It shows that there’s scope of improvement,” Cas smiled his large, toothy smile. “And that it’s only kinda our fault.” He was grinning now, and Dean had to mirror. “Less dumb, less ass.”

“Sure, have it your way.” Dean breathed out - they were stood on opposite sides of the doorway now. “Have a good one, Cas."

Cas nodded. “And enjoy the talk-show.”

“More like best of luck to _me_.”

“As you wish.”

And with that, Cas walked off down the stairs, ignoring the elevator in favor of it - the ever health-junkie. No wonder he always looked so great and glowing and all of that shit regular exercising brings with it. But Dean would’ve taken the elevators and spent an extra ten minutes on the treadmill if Sam bitched about it to him. The simple difference between him and a fully functioning person like Cas.

And Dean followed the trail of ending conversations back to his couch, and crashed back on it for a few more minutes of quiet before he had to get ready for real - more accurately, reel - and get back to _work_. Cas had repeatedly suggested that Dean sleep off his hangover when it’d gotten real bad in between the two times he puked, but Dean had obviously refused because that’d be an even worse host than to get Cas to get his dishes for him.

As far as hangovers went and Dean had had some bad experiences, some worse, and then the cream-of-the-cake hangover when Bela had broken up with him in between, that’d felt like it lasted months probably because it did - this had been an overall good one. And as far as dealing with hungover Dean went, Cas was sure a whole lot better than she’d ever been.

_Fucking parallels._

His life wasn’t a book stuffed full of subtext, and he needed to stop thinking like it.

Grey or black blazer, he wondered to himself, finally closing his eye

*** 

“Sam? Hey, it’s Dean. Need a favor, and you’ve gotta agree, because Bobby’s sanctioned it, and otherwise he’s gonna be on your ass. Me, though? I’ll owe you a big one, and I’m sorry I’m even asking. So,” Dean resumed, after Sam hemmed from the other end of the line, as an indication that he was listening. “There’s this show I’m gonna be on.” He paused, but Sam didn’t react, yet. “I need you with me at the Ketch-Davies studio building in about four hours to do this meet-and-greet kinda thing. With famous people.”

“...You’ll owe me a big one.”

“I knew you wouldn’t turn me down after I told you where to meet! I wasn’t wrong about the feeling I had of your love-hate-secretly-love relationship with Davies, huh?”

“Don't push it. I’m still on the edge.”

“Fine, fine. Not pushing it. Even throwing in a ‘please’.”

“And, Dean? ‘S not called a meet-and-greet when it’s with celebrities.”

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t calling it a cocktail party.” Dean grinned, shoving himself up from the couch to his walk-in closet, tucked away behind one of the walls of his bedroom. Obviously whatever he chose wouldn’t be fine, and he’d have to change into whatever they’d picked for him before he went on air, but he would have to come back home in his clothes - so he couldn’t exactly wear what he was wearing at the moment.

A momentary glance at his reflection had him scrunching his nose at the repulsive thought of him looking that bad in _front_ of Cas - and as _compared_ to Cas, who always looked like he’d sprang up from the pages of Vogue, styled by the gods of the industry for the runway. Talk about not putting in efforts. He pulled out a pair of acid-washed jeans and a grey blazer he’d got last Christmas. Whether or not they let him wear it on air, he needed to look good for Cas tonight. Not _needed_ to - obviously not - but ‘wanted to’ sounded weirdly creepy in his head.

His head did a weird turnabout at that. Dinner with Cas. Cas talking about himself. Cas explaining why he couldn’t come. Cas talking to him truthfully. Eating out together. What if they got spotted? Dean wasn’t sure he really minded. It would be a step ahead. Maybe while ridiculing the headlines he was bound to make, being seen with Dean at a restaurant, they’d end up actually addressing the topic, and now Dean knew that Cas knew that he was into guys too - something he could never have puckered up and told him, for the sake of it - and Dean knew that Cas wasn’t opposed to dating men either, and maybe Dean would get the balls to do something stupid about his weird thoughts about him - something stupid seemed like the best way forward. If only he could be brave enough to do that stupid something to set the wheels rolling. Hell, Dean didn’t feel crappy after his morning with Cas - and he deserved to be happy. Maybe -

His highly surprising trail of thoughts were interrupted as Sam scoffed and begun to speak as if years after Dean had said something. “Nobody’s _asking_ you to call it a cocktail party, jerk. It’s a -”

“‘Professor’ me when you get there, bitch. Don't stand me up, ‘kay? We’ll wrap it up as soon as we can, and hopefully be free to run by seven. Text you the details.”

 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a late update, and I'm sorry! But, have a bit of healthy communication! I'm very proud of the boys, after this. Merry Christmas, people! Have an amazing last few days of the year!
> 
> And hey, happy new year in advance!

**Author's Note:**

> -Love, Sheya.


End file.
